Work Text:
There is a box on the table.
It looks extravagant. Fancy. Like those boxes you get when you’re invited to attend a fashion show. Its size is about as big as a shoebox, its wrapping paper a blushy coral pink with feather pattern embossed on it, its ribbon a shimmery black organza, neatly tied into a bow near one end of the box’s long side. A crisp, pristine white envelope is slipped under the ribbon, mostly likely perfumed. A name is hot-pressed onto it with gold foil–in the English alphabet, cursive font, devoid of any tonal indicator. Even from a distance, Meixiang can read the words just fine, loopy typography aside.
‘To Mr. Yucheng Lin, from your Darling Dearest Mia.’
One of the staff must have brought it in when they went up for soundcheck. Meixiang walks around the table and sits down on the adjacent couch after pushing aside a mound of miscellaneous clothing, eyes never leaving the box. It makes a jarring contrast with the assortment of food containers and crumpled tissues and half-empty cups of coffee strewn all over the table around it, and Meixiang feels the urge to clean up, somehow, just so their team’s rowdiness won’t seem so obvious.
He does nothing of the sort, though. Instead, he slumps further down the couch, almost leaning sideways on the fabric mountain, and racks his brain for information. He tries to remember who ‘Darling Dearest Mia’ is. Or rather, what ‘Darling Dearest Mia’ is. This is obviously a PR from Yucheng’s long list of brand deals. His question: what kind of deal? Fashion? Cosmetics? Health supplement?
Nothing he can remember right away. Someone opens the door to the waiting room. A staff walks inside, then a moment later Xuejun saunters in, humming some song under his breath.
Much like Meixiang, his eyes immediately zero in on the pretty box on the table.
“Damn,” Xuejun whistles. “I thought you were Qiwen-ge’s one and only darling dearest.”
Meixiang snatches a random piece of clothing and flings it at Xuejun’s general direction. It falls harmlessly on the floor almost immediately after, not even close to where Xuejun is standing. “Shut up,” he grumbles.
Wisely choosing not to test Meixiang’s patience prior to their performance, Xuejun puts his arms up in a sign of surrender and pulls the envelope from under the ribbon, turning it around between his index and middle finger. “This smells like one of those fancy papers. You know? Like when you receive a wedding invitation from a really rich couple?”
“Don’t mess it up,” Meixiang warns, just as Xuejun’s nosy hands are about to break open the wax sealing the flap. “Yucheng-ge might need to take pics.”
Xuejun thumbs the seal like he’s considering the opposite. “I know,” he concedes, after a second. The envelope is safely back to its place under the organza, but Xuejun’s eyes linger on it still. “I heard our makeup artist talking about this brand. Supposedly, their products are indestructible and really affordable. I think some of it is on our faces right now.”
So, a cosmetic brand, huh? Meixiang never really pays attention to the newer brands currently circulating in the beauty market. Those things pop up as quickly as fungi during the rainy season, and go just as quickly. Maybe his makeup artist did mention it to him, too, at some point. Meixiang just doesn’t bother to remember.
“Is Qiwen-ge doing an endorsement?” Xuejun plops down at the other end of the couch, picking up the clothing Meixiang threw him earlier and tossing it back to the pile. “Or is he their new ambassador? He hasn’t left the Olive Young billboards for years now.”
Neither does Yucheng’s face ever leave the airport, the subway, the train station, or any other places of crowd and commute, because apparently Taiwan’s economy relies on it a lot. Perks of having an insane face card, he guesses.
Meixiang rakes his memories again. Strangely, he couldn’t recall Yucheng mentioning anything about a certain Mia, let alone with a ‘Darling Dearest’ attached to it.
“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully.
Xuejun whips his head and looks at Meixiang wide-eyed. “You don't know?”
There is something very disturbing and very wrong with the way Xuejun responded. Is Meixiang supposed to know? Him and Yucheng might be attached at the hip, metaphorically and sometimes literally as well, but it isn’t like Yucheng tells him every single tidbit of his life.
But then Xuejun’s expression morphs. His saucer eyes narrow, lips pressed, head tilting away. He regards Meixiang with an unimpressed sidelong glance typical of the times when he’s up to some mischief, then says, “I’m telling Mom.”
Meixiang closes his eyes. Inhales deeply, exhales slowly. “Yucheng-ge is not your mom.”
The downturned lips go forward several millimetres in defiance. “Says you. Qiwen-ge never denies it himself.”
Right. Meixiang would never admit it for the sake of the argument, but he feels every bit like a tired dad arguing with his stubborn kid right now. In fact, during the years since their team had been put (read: mashed) together, Meixiang only feels more and more like a complementary pair to Yucheng’s motherly persona. A counterbalance. And not just because they’re together together. As a team consisting of problem children as its majority and a youngest who is younger than freaking Hatsune Miku, a parental figure is an absolute need. And who is Meixiang to leave Yucheng alone shouldering all that?
The door opens again. This time, more of his so-called children burst through, decked in their performance costume from head-to-toe. Meixiang counts with his eyes. Three pairs of legs. Baiyou’s annoyingly tall frame fills up the doorway, first. Eexiang behind him, then a moment later Jinwoo’s small face peeks out from between them. They all crowd around the table, fascinated by The Box™.
"Darling Dearest Mia," Eexiang reads out loud, twisting his head at a 45-degree angle following the orientation of the envelope. The chain dangling around his neck rasps against his shirt as he moves. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Qiwen-ge is getting bored of the vanilla and finally decided to spice things up by getting something from a raunchy back alley toy shop. Another PR?”
Meixiang bristles from the very obvious jab. Yet before he can shoot a counter, Xuejun beats him to it.
“Hey, be respectful to Mom,” he chides. He’s still riding on his previous agenda, and Meixiang is for once grateful that he is.
Eexiang chuckles, eyes flicking to Meixiang. “Apologies.”
It was half-assed, so Meixiang only scoffs. Damn tropical guy is aware of what he’s doing and is doing it on purpose. He should be grateful that Diweng is not here to listen to all the shit spewing out of his mouth, or Meixiang might just go ballistic in Yucheng’s place.
“So, what’s in this?” Eexiang drags over a stool and perches on it. “Looks like a girly girl’s gift.”
“Some makeup, I think. The makeup artist used this brand to give me this highlight here,” Xuejun angles his face to the light. A faint silvery shimmer glows on his cheekbones.
“Really? But it almost looks like it contains something zesty, doesn’t it? Pink box, frilly ribbon, your Darling Dearest Mia?” A faint smirk makes its way to Eexiang’s lips. “It just screams… I don’t know, panty and stockings. Lingerie and lube. Like they know Qiwen-ge fucks nasty."
Four pairs of inquisitive eyes are suddenly on Meixiang, crawling over him like centipedes, measuring him like he’s a piece at an auction house and they’re trying to determine his worth. Meixiang tries not to squirm under their collective weight.
“What?” Meixiang drawls. “Don’t ask me for details.”
Jinwoo recoils. “Ew, no thanks.”
It feels like an eternity passed before Xuejun stops looking up and down at Meixiang. “Well… obviously he does?”
Eexiang leans back, shaking his head. “No, I mean… we know Qiwen-ge fucks. We know the how and the who and even the when. They, on the other hand…” he sweeps an arm vaguely over The Box, “they are thinking about something… different."
“Different how?” Baiyou joins in, and for a second Meixiang feels like drowning somewhere. They’re about to perform in front of thousands of people in a few minutes, yet they choose to pass time by nitpicking Yucheng's sex life, which is tied intricately to Meixiang's sex life.
Jinwoo furrows his thin eyebrows. “But Qiwen-ge isn’t like you, though?”
Eexiang narrows his eyes. “And what do you mean by that, Park Jinwoo?”
“Qiwen and Meixiang-ge are like pigeons, yeah?” Apparently, Jinwoo is fluent in the language of physical intercourse, today. “Meanwhile, you?"
“You fuck around,” Xuejun completes for him.
“Excuse me?” Eexiang straightens up, hand poised dramatically on his chest. “I don’t fuck around. I am creating connections! I don’t just fuck with everybody.”
The effort Meixiang puts into not rolling his eyes should be awarded with a medal. Out of everyone in this room, staff included, he is the only other person who attended Yucheng’s 2-credits lecture about why Eexiang should not be going around sleeping with random people he met backstage. The lecture resulted in an NDA draft, which Meixiang has no doubt exists somewhere in printed format in Eexiang’s bag right now, and a contract between Yucheng, Team Captain in all his official and professional capacity, and Eexiang, detailing all the rules in which he could go outside to fuck. Eexiang had complained magnificently upon the procurement of said results, but then Yucheng showed him the no-fuck-around contract he and Meixiang signed with the freaking company, and he promptly shut up.
So, really. Eexiang should be glad that he still maintains some sort of liberty to get handsy with people of his own choosing and have the company avert its eyes altogether, provided both parties sign the NDA and adhere to the contract. He should be down on his knees, hands clasping, eyes crying in gratitude. To Yucheng, most of all. What he has is leagues better than Yucheng and Meixiang’s shitty deal with the company–a downright humiliating shitshow Meixiang won’t hesitate to spit upon if Yucheng didn’t work so damn hard to ensure it worked in their favour.
Fuck, his thought is going places it shouldn’t.
Anyway. There’s a grain of truth in what Eexiang said. Guy fucks like it’s a promotional strategy. In the span of two years after their debut, Eexiang’s dick and ass game has brought about as many people on their radar as Yucheng’s extensive showbiz connection. It’s impressive. And frankly a little horrifying. Meixiang just wishes he’d stop rubbing it on their faces and being so damn smug about it.
The kids still argue about who fucks who and what other suggestive items The Box may contain when Meixiang hears new noises coming from the hallway. There are enough voices for him to know their waiting room is about to get crowded. And everyone seems to be on the same page, chairs scraping and butts scooting to make more spaces. Diweng’s excited chatter rises above the cacophony, accompanied by Yucheng’s carefree, tinkling laughter. Meixiang suddenly feels self-conscious. He uses the small window when everyone’s attention is to the door to straighten his jacket and press down on his fringes. He hasn’t seen Yucheng since he disappeared to change and get his hair and makeup done, so he doesn’t really know what to prepare for.
He’s glad he didn’t ignore the more lame, down-bad side of himself, though. Because right then Yucheng comes in, a bouquet of random plastic flowers in his arms, looking every part like the thousand-dollar haute-couture doll that he is: hair slicked back, red tassel on his left ear, obsidian studs on his right, leather choker around his neck and a dagger resting at the hollow between his collarbones. There are bright red streaks on his eyelids, shadowed by something softer and fuzzier on his lower lids’ edges. Red on his lips, like he just crushed a pomegranate. Red lacquer on his nails. Meixiang’s brain goes numb for a second. At once Yucheng’s eyes are upon him, and Meixiang wonders if it counts as contract breach if he pulls Yucheng onto his lap and kisses him right where everyone is watching. It probably does.
Without sparing a second, Yucheng beelines to him, moving to rest the bouquet on the table and pauses mid-air when he sees it’s full of garbage. Baiyou, their second youngest who is ever so eager to earn Yucheng’s praises, immediately goes to put the mess away. Eexiang scoots back. Jinwoo stands up and disappears before Baiyou can drag him along. Xuejun hesitates a little longer, freezing with his ass half-sitting half-raised from the couch, before he decides to contribute by flattening himself against the armrest to give Yucheng the middle space so he can sit beside Meixiang.
Yucheng expresses his appreciation with a silent smile, then steps over Xuejun’s feet right into the space he just vacated. From this close, Meixiang can catch a whiff of his perfume, something woody and smoky and floral, definitely one or more of his endorsement products mixed with something straight out of Meixiang’s own closet. He lets pride heat his veins, belatedly noticing that the outfit their stylist put Yucheng in is no less provocative than the accessories on his face. He’s in one of those tight-fitting leather pants that sit high on his waist and makes his ass look like it’s worth its own endorsement. His shirt–black, because the team’s visual has to be unified–is open down to his chest, its collar sliding down the curve of his shoulders. His delicate wrists are coiled with black cords and silver beads. Metal rings, set with stones, clink on his fingers.
His outfit is designed to match with Meixiang, he realises. So that later, when they harmonise during the bridge before the dance break and have their backs to each other, they can paint a pleasing juxtaposition: Yucheng’s jet black to Meixiang’s platinum blonde, Yucheng’s tassel to Meixiang’s ruby cross, Yucheng’s bracelets to Meixiang’s temporary inks. Their performance is gonna be fucking fire.
Meixiang slings an arm across the back of the couch. Yucheng falls effortlessly into it, fitting into his side as easily as breathing.
He pokes a finger into Yucheng’s open cleavage. “Is this mesh?”
“Not really,” Yucheng exhales, more air than actual voice. The see-through fabric visible on his chest ripples with every tiny movement. “Just something sheer.”
Their stylist clearly has a favourite tonight, and it’s Yucheng, currently lounging all cat-like in his arms. Meixiang isn’t complaining.
“That doesn’t look very safe for work.”
Yucheng snorts. “Yeah, you wish.” He looks up at Meixiang and gives him one of those sultry, unblinking gaze through half-lidded eyes. Back then, that gaze used to scramble his brain and make his knees weak. He’d say something for an interview and Yucheng would be right by his side giving him that exact same gaze, and Meixiang would be too shy to hold it for too long so his eyes just… escaped to Yucheng’s lips, most of the time.
It never really helped. If any, it made things worse.
“I recorded some challenges and it survived just fine,” Yucheng continues, consistently maintaining the intensity of his gaze. Meixiang no longer wavers under its weight, now. Now, it feels more of a treat than a burden, something Yucheng gives to Meixiang and only to Meixiang. His privilege.
“You sure?” A finger hooks into his collar. “It looks flimsy to me.”
“Wanna test it out?"
Oh, wouldn’t Meixiang love to. It’s a tempting suggestion. Yucheng’s lips are cherry red and so, so close and it will be so, so easy to just flex his arm a little bit so Yucheng will fall into the crook of his elbow and Meixiang can just trap him there as he surges forward for a taste. But. But–
Baiyou’s ultra-slow cleaning spree reaches its conclusion. The Box glares at them from the sparkling clean glass table, reminding him who else has been waiting to get Yucheng's attention.
Xuejun elbows Yucheng on his side. “Qiwen-ge…” he starts, eyes catching Meixiang in between two rapid blinks. Meixiang realises what he's about to do way too late. “Meixiang-ge said he didn’t know you had a deal with this brand.”
It’s like they are suddenly upstairs and a window is open to let in the chilly year-end draft.
Yucheng’s gaze, this time stripped from all of its seductive undertones, is back on Meixiang. Meixiang doesn’t really have a reason to be nervous–what does he have to lose?–but he is.
When Yucheng parts his lips, what comes out first is his tongue, briefly sweeping across the gloss on his bottom lip. Meixiang finds it’s becoming hard to swallow.
Yucheng presses his lips to a thin line. “You don’t know?”
His tone isn’t actually unkind, but Meixiang remembers Xuejun’s surprise when he asked him the exact same thing not even ten minutes ago, and suddenly he’s not so sure if he’s gonna escape this argument with his skin intact, regardless if his memory serves him correctly.
“I don’t–you didn’t tell me.”
“I did.”
The response is so direct that Meixiang feels like losing his footing.
“You didn’t.”
“I did,” Yucheng insists, angling his body to fully face Meixiang, one leg slung over his thighs and palm pressing on Meixiang’s shoulder over his jacket linings. “On the last day of practice, at the company.”
Meixiang rifles through his memories for the third time and still fails to find what he’s looking for. Nothing eventful happened on the last day of practice, he swears. It was mostly just filming for the dance practice video the company would later upload after this event is done. They didn’t even talk much during the break. Or did they?
A pair of irises, tinged grey from contact lenses, search Meixiang’s eyes. “You really don’t remember?” Yucheng’s shoulders sag and Meixiang feels like beating himself with a broom.
Meixiang hesitantly, regrettably, shakes his head. “I don’t.” Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Sorry, I… really don’t remember.”
Yucheng sighs and reaches for a phone lying screen-down on the table. “How come? And I was so excited when I told you, too.”
“I think I’ll remember a ‘darling dearest’ anything if you ever mention it to me, Ge. You don’t even give me a pet name.”
“I don’t like using those.”
And that is fact. Yucheng’s tolerance only extends as far as using the one Koreanised version of Meixiang’s name that was improvised and introduced by Jinwoo at some point during their second comeback showcase. Or when he’s the one getting pet-named.
Deft fingers work quickly on the phone, locating and opening up Instagram then navigating around to a specific user’s profile. “But seriously, you don’t remember?” Scroll, scroll. “They posted teasers in the official accounts and even our fans talk about it, Mei-yah. How can you not know?”
There it is–the nickname appearing only when Yucheng has enough of Meixiang’s stupidity, delivered in no less amount of affection as a mother who wishes her son did better.
For once Meixiang doesn’t feel like kissing Yucheng’s pout away for fear of being bitten. “Here, look at this,” Yucheng shoves the phone screen in front of his face. It’s Meixiang’s phone, he realises. Nobody else keeps a cracked screen protector or loops a corny ‘001023010916’ charm on their phone. Only him.
A short video plays on the screen. Some kind of lip product. Some hands. Silhouette of a person. A brief clip of the pair of lips Meixiang will recognise anywhere, stained crimson.
“But, Ge…” Meixiang’s hand reaches for the phone, enveloping Yucheng’s hand still holding onto it. “This is all in Korean.”
Yucheng’s stare is deadpan. “Are you saying two years is not enough for you to improve, huh, Zheng Meixiang?”
Meixiang gulps and obediently says nothing.
“They translated the caption in English if that’s more to your forte, but I know it isn’t, either. My point is, how can you not know? Seriously. You said you forgot, and now you don’t know. Even our fans are better at spotting me in the crowd and they don’t see me everyday the way you do. What are you? A goldfish?”
Wow. Ouch.
“Mom, Dad, please don’t fight,” Jinwoo flatly quips from his corner without looking at them.
“No, let them fight.” Still perching on his stool, Eexiang sweeps a glass of iced coffee and slurps from the straw like he’s watching a movie at a freaking IMAX. “This is fun.”
Meixiang ignores them. “Ge, if you just showed me this video, I would know it’s you, too! But you didn’t, right? Pretty sure you didn’t. I would’ve remembered otherwise.”
“I already said I told you on the last day of practice for today’s stage. That was last week, Mei-yah. This video was uploaded yesterday. See? Did your brain shrink or is nervousness frying your synapses?”
This argument is getting ridiculous. Meixiang shifts in his seat, letting his arm fall to the dip of Yucheng’s waist. Yucheng doesn’t flinch. At least, that’s a good sign.
“Okay. So you said you told me at practice last week. What did you say exactly? I need to know what I possibly miss.”
“You–” Yucheng raises his voice, thinks better of it, stops, then continues in a more level tone. “I told you, okay? I said, ‘Meixiang, you know what? I guess I’ll never retire from being the face of the beauty section at Taipei 101, afterall.' And then I showed you–” he scrolls further down the Instagram gallery, “–this. I showed you exactly this post.”
“Really?” Meixiang squints. The post Yucheng has open is blurred to the heavens, only showing the words ‘COMING SOON’ and the logo of the brand at the bottom center, ‘Darling Dearest Mia'.
Meixiang knocks his head back against the wall, groaning. “How would I know it was this brand?”
“Do you remember now?”
He does. He was sitting with his back to the practice room mirror, thumbing a drop of sweat from the corner of his eye, when Yucheng appeared on his elbow and, yes, excitedly, told him about another contract he just signed with yet another cosmetic brand. But it’s weird that Meixiang didn’t remember the brand itself, because–come on, it’s Yucheng. He would want to learn as much as he could about Yucheng. He would want to know the details of the thing that got him excited in the first place. What happened?
“Did I ask you what brand it was?”
“You didn’t. You were too busy rubbing your stank all over my neck.”
Oh. Oh.
He remembers. Yucheng coming late to the practice still wearing the outfit from his previous schedule. The two of them refining the details of their duet performance, once more. An endless monitoring. Yucheng, breathless, lying down on the floor. Meixiang sitting down with sweat dripping from his hairline. Yucheng crawling over to where he was, talking about something, but Meixiang could only focus on the amount of bare skin under his denim jacket and the way his perfume mixed with whatever chemical his skin released to create a borderline irresistible aroma. Yucheng’s jacket falling off one delectable shoulder to hang by his delectable, bare arm. Meixiang catching a whiff of something sharp yet sweet tickling his nose, and Yucheng’s words blurred altogether. Next time he knew, his face was buried in Yucheng’s neck, with Yucheng’s fingers digging into his scalp and pulling at his hair, trying to no avail to get his very sticky, probably also very stinky, ass away from him.
Okay. Meixiang understands now. His skin feels warm from embarrassment, and he tips his head forward to hide his face in Yucheng’s hair.
“...I’m sorry,” he mumbles. Yucheng’s hair is stiff from hairspray. “In my defense, you were very distracting at the time, so I failed to pay attention to what you were saying.”
Yucheng huffs, not-so-carefully dropping Meixiang’s phone on the table. He’s done with it. “Whatever. I’m past being mad.”
“You definitely still are.”
“There’s no point, though.”
Another phone materialises in Yucheng’s hand–his own, with the cartoon griptok he won at a gachapon in Osaka. He finally acknowledges the existence of The Box and decides to do something about it, probably because it looks too sad, neglected like that. Meixiang wonders if his apparent forgetfulness earlier made Yucheng feel a little like The Box. Like, for a moment, both of them are kindred spirits.
Before he can think better of it, Meixiang hooks a finger under Yucheng’s chin, gently turning his face in his direction and then past it, pressing close until Yucheng is practically facing the wall over his shoulder. “Please stay mad, Ge,” he whispers, stealing a quick peck from the skin near Yucheng’s jaw. The red orb holding his tassel bobs slightly. “It looks sexy on you.”
The punch lands square in his guts, unanticipated. Meixiang pulls away like Yucheng grew spikes out of nowhere, chuckling in both disbelief and surprise through the dull pain twisting under his ribs. Somewhere in the room someone is saying something about them being gross and Meixiang bursts into a full-bodied laughter.
“No, no, please,” he rushes to prevent Yucheng from getting up and going away. “I’m sorry. I really am, okay? Don’t leave.”
“You’re on fucking thin ice, Zheng Meixiang.”
“I know, sorry.”
But he’s still shaking with laughter, and it doesn’t seem to improve Yucheng’s mood. The arm he snakes around his waist goes ignored. The playful shoves he does with their feet go unanswered, too. Yucheng seems hell-bent on being a grumpy black cat, and for Meixiang, a blunt wolf with near to no understanding of personal space, it just won’t do.
So he does the next best thing to bring his lover back to him when sex isn’t on the option: he annoys him even more.
“Ge, I’m curious, though,” he says cautiously, shifting to accommodate Yucheng’s stiff posture. “Do you know what I’m doing lately?”
He’s playing with fire and he knows it all too well.
Yucheng’s gaze at once sharpens into knife-point. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Meixiang faces the blade head-on but says nothing. Yes, he is well on his way of getting addicted with the thrill of riding on Yucheng’s annoyance and no, his curiosity is actually genuine–he doesn’t share to anyone the particulars of his latest activities. Just a little bit here and there in passing, when it’s relevant to bring up in a conversation.
A puff of air hits his uncovered arm as Yucheng huffs, loudly, making his irritation palpable. “Of course I know. I’m not you.”
Alright. The attack is uncalled for. “Do you? What is it, then?”
“You have that photoshoot with Fear Of God for the February issue of Vogue Korea,” Yucheng counts with his fingers. “And that YouTube content with Taiwan Tourism Administration planned for the holiday season. You’re also doing that game soundtrack with Xinming, aren’t you? What else?”
Too stunned to speak, Meixiang can only manage a weak 'oh' in response. He didn’t think Yucheng would know so much. He didn’t expect him to have such a superior perception of his surroundings, so much that he could glean that amount of details just from pure observation and probably quite a bit of prodding around. Meixiang didn’t tell him all of those–not that much, anyway. It was never more than, ‘I’m doing a photoshoot’, ‘I have a filming’, ‘I’m at the recording room’. He guesses that was why Yucheng became their captain and the members hail him as their metaphorical mom. When it comes to them, Yucheng seems to just know things.
“See? I know.” Yucheng punctuates his point with a flick of his head.
Meixiang awkwardly scratches the tip of his nose. “So you do know. You aren’t using your leader privilege to dig out my personal schedule, are you?” Another experimental poke, another fiery glare.
“What leader privilege? A privilege is sending you to a cram school of basic thinking so you’ll be less stupid.”
“Oh, buuurn,” Xuejun inserts himself into their conversation, with the enthusiasm of a kid watching his favourite superhero decking the villain. “Do we get that on cam?”
Meixiang does a quick sweep of the room and confirms that there’s actually no camera recording them right now. It’s probably still with Diweng, following him as he goes around interviewing other artists for the mini series he’s doing with a broadcast station. Meixiang is still safe to do whatever. For now.
“Well, now I feel bad,” he admits. “I feel like I’m double the asshole.”
“Don’t drag me into the pity party that you host yourself.”
A gleeful giggle floats from the other end of the couch, “You’re digging your own grave, Meixiang-ge.”
Meixiang hangs his head. “Sorry.”
It’s met with silence for quite a long time as Yucheng returns to his mission of taking pictures of The Box and getting the staff’s approval for posting. Meixiang watches him work, fascinated by his meticulousness.
Yucheng is drafting an Instagram caption in the notes app when he suddenly says, “Mei-yah…”
Meixiang’s ears and eyes are open, afraid he’ll miss anything and make himself a fool again.
“Actually,” there’s a minute pause before Yucheng tries again with his hand lightly resting on Meixiang’s wrist. As much as Meixiang wants to, he doesn’t make any move to entwine their hands together. Gotta let his lover take control of this moment. “I hope you aren’t misunderstanding my… displeasure earlier. I wasn’t trying to undermine your effort or saying that I must acquire your validation on every single thing that I do. Sorry if I make you feel that way.”
Meixiang blinks, taken aback. That’s not what he thinks he’ll hear from Yucheng after he called him a stupid goldfish with fried synapses, all within the same hour. It’s a pleasant surprise, though.
Yucheng’s nails scrape on the rise of his tendons and Meixiang takes that as a permission to slot his hand in his hold. “I won’t. I know what you meant.”
“Oh my god, hold on,” Eexiang, quiet as a statue until now, makes a sour face. “Can we stay on the rom-com? I can’t stand this switch of genre.”
The eyes that are looking at Meixiang so sincerely slide over to throw daggers across the table. “No. I’m showing you the importance of communication in a relationship. I don’t care if you don’t have one–stay put.”
Eexiang obeys.
Yucheng nods in approval and plows on, eyes back on Meixiang again. “I wasn’t that mad about the fact that you forgot. What upset me the most was you not listening to me when I wanted to be listened to. Thank you for basically saying I smelled so good you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, by the way. I’m flattered. But let’s keep our priorities straight and our impulses controlled next time, shall we?”
It’s a little weird that Yucheng has no qualms whatsoever about making this–whatever this is–as public as possible. Don’t couples usually keep their private matters… well, private? Meixiang doesn’t think he can gracefully resolve a relationship crisis under the scrutiny of an audience quite like Yucheng does. He’s more on the side of someone who goes the lengthy way of bribery and sweet talks before he’ll even attempt an apology. Privately. A perfect contrast to Yucheng’s direct, no-nonsense style.
But maybe that’s why they complement each other so well. They’re just different in so many ways.
“Okay,” Meixiang curls his fingers and pulls Yucheng closer to him by the hand he’s holding. “I’m–” He remembers at the last millisecond Yucheng probably doesn’t want to hear another ‘sorry’. “I’ll do better.”
“I appreciate that.”
The smile Yucheng gives him isn’t at all wide or sweet or full of overwhelming joy as it often is, yet Meixiang feels his chest tighten all the same, the space inside becoming narrow with growing knots. He loves this guy, damn. Which is why he feels no embarrassment when he leans forward on reflex, about to capture that smile in an open-mouthed kiss, only to get stopped halfway by a hand at the base of his neck.
“Meixiang,” Yucheng warns, “impulse control, remember?”
He doesn’t budge, doesn’t really care. Their previous agreement shouldn’t apply when nothing sits higher than kissing Yucheng on the priority list. And besides, he just escapes the ‘Mei-yah’ jail. He wants to celebrate.
Yucheng’s hand pushes more insistently. “My lip colour isn’t transfer-proof…”
Barking a laugh, Meixiang finally gives up, and lets Yucheng go. “Alright, alright.”
Somehow, doing a whole show in front of everyone is a-okay, but God forbid Yucheng’s lipstick smears on Meixiang.
An electronic ping tells him Yucheng finally gets the answer about which photos are appropriate to post. He fiddles with his phone some more, and Meixiang is struck with an idea.
“By the way, Ge,” he inclines his head to The Box, prettily sitting beside the flower bouquet Yucheng brought in earlier. From where, Meixiang doesn’t know and doesn’t feel like knowing. Yucheng gets flowers from everyone on the regular. It occurs frequently enough that if their team’s content has a flower in it, it’s probably Yucheng’s. “What’s in the box? It doesn’t seem like it contains just makeup.”
Flame of excitement glints behind Yucheng’s eyes. “It’s not just makeup. I worked on a lot of extra stuff with them to launch along with this product line. Wait–I’ll just show you. Jiejie!”
Like a man on a mission, Yucheng stands up in a flash and hunts for a crew to help him film. Meixiang settles back into the couch, enjoying how the scene plays out. He missed Yucheng’s story the first time. He’ll make up for it by being here as Yucheng tells it to the world.
Yucheng acquires a camera and a cameraman in a flash. And from there it’s as usual, only now Meixiang knows Yucheng’s happiness is not staged. He speaks to the camera, starting by thanking the brand, praising the beautiful packaging, giving a concise story about how the collaboration came to be. He skims through the content of the letter sealed in the envelope before untying the ribbon and opening up the box. Six vials of lip product lay on a cushion of shredded paper inside. Around it various other items are placed at random. Meixiang spots a sticker pack, button-sized pins, and something that suspiciously looks like a pair of handcuffs, among other things.
Those are Yucheng’s contributions, Meixiang realises. His designs. The role he plays in the creation of this campaign. That’s what he wasn’t able to get across to Meixiang before.
“This will look good on you,” Meixiang adds, near the end of Yucheng’s short first-impression recording. He’s pointing at the colour at the farthest right, a vibrant red, like blood on your finger after you prick it with a needle.
“You think so?” Yucheng gives him those heavy bedroom eyes again. Meixiang struggles not to sway with the implication. “I think I look best in red, too.”
“You look good in everything.” He meant it in a playful way. But it comes out too fast, too eager. Too much desire and too little breath.
He receives an almost bashful laugh in return. “Thank you.”
Yucheng wraps up the filming and ensures with the staff the footage was okay. Then he puts the box and its contents back together, forfeiting the ribbon. Someone will bring it to their dorm, where it will camp until further notice. What’s inside will mostly end up in the other members’ makeup pouches or in the dresser of their family back home at the end, anyway. That always happens with cosmetics placements. Their team is just generally too frugal to let something sit and expire.
A lull falls upon them and it feels like something in the air just melts. Eexiang finally leaves his perch upon deeming that neither Meixiang nor Yucheng is still entertaining to watch, walking away to join Jinwoo for a last-minute practice. Seeing them is apparently giving Xuejun headache, so he flees somewhere, too. Only Meixiang and Yucheng still huddle around the table, waiting for the moment they get called to perform.
“Are you nervous, Ge?”
The snort coming out of Yucheng’s mouth is humourless. “Wouldn’t I look like a villain if I say I don’t?”
“You’ll kill it.”
“We all will.”
Just then, a call comes to tell them to get ready. A flurry of activities immediately unfolds around them: makeup fixed, in-ears set, mics checked, water gulped and Diweng hunted. Yucheng grabs his arm in the midst of Eexiang and Xuejun having a weird vocal-off, tugging him closer and then pulling him down so he can speak directly into his ear.
Meixiang almost stumbles from the force, thankfully catching himself before he can reenact the viral scene when their mics tangled during the survival competition in 2024 and everyone thought they were smooching.
“Meixiang, wait,” Yucheng says, slipping something into Meixiang’s hand. It’s the letter addressed to Yucheng earlier, in the scented envelope from Darling Dearest Mia.
He looks up questioningly at Yucheng, only to receive a suspicious lip bite and a cryptic smile return.
Something dark is swirling in Yucheng’s eyes. He runs the pads of his fingers on the back of Meixiang’s hand holding the paper and Meixiang shudders.
“Think about this when the campaign photos drop later.” He sounds expectant and rushed, like he can’t wait to see Meixiang’s reaction upon the arrival of said moment. “Alone.”
And just like that, he disappears, off to shoulder his leader-slash-mom duties elsewhere. Meixiang tilts his head in curiosity and opens up the folded card. It smells faintly of strawberries and apples.
‘To: Mr. Yucheng Lin’
Yucheng’s name is scrawled by hand, with wet ink. Indentations appear at the back of the paper where the pen passed through.
‘Thank you for welcoming our invitation and together birth into reality the dream we weaved for our precious, dearest Darlings. After a long, passionate journey filled with joy and sincerity, we would love to present to you the final fruits of our labour: the Bound Eternal series, first among many.’
Everything is worded like a poem–Meixiang is impressed.
‘The ‘Vivid Recollection’ liquid lip colour comes in six different shades to fit various vibes and moods and bring into completion your wildest fantasies. We put a lot of thought into creating a classy design for every occasion and a compact size for the comfort of your travel. Become the main character with our transfer-proof formula, intense pigments, and a high definition, glossy finish. Be confident! Taste the world’s flavour. Deliver a world-changing speech. Go out and make the world yours. Our colour will never ghost you or leave you high and dry, even when you’re busy having the most mind-blowing sex in your whole life.
‘Never worry about losing the spotlight. We got you covered.’
Nobody says a thing as Meixiang draws a startled gasp and chokes on air. He hastily clears his throat, eyes flitting about to look for the object of his rising imagination. Pairs of eyes meet his, but none of them is what he hopes to find.
He laughs, incredulous, stuffing the letter into the front pocket of his pants. So this is how Yucheng wants to play this specific game. Okay. Meixiang can wait. He’ll follow Yucheng’s rules until the agreed time limit of the release of the campaign photos, and then…
A flash of familiar red appears in the distance. Meixiang struts over, determined. The crowd before him parts to make way.
As if sensing his approach, Yucheng turns his head and meets his eyes with a knowing look of his own. He gives no verbal reaction to Meixiang bending over and sliding a discreet hand to discreetly squeeze at the inside of his thigh, but he feels the muscle under his hand shift and tense in response. And then he walks past, a smirk fading out from his lips.
Meixiang doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t need to. Maybe Yucheng already knows.
He looks back, catching Yucheng smiling to himself. Yeah, he definitely knows.