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When Chi Cheng was young, he had read about a fascinating example of coevolution between garter snakes and newts. The snakes ate the newts, which were naturally poisonous. Over time, garter snakes evolved a natural resistance to the newt’s toxin. The newts had to become more and more toxic, while the snakes became more and more resistant to it. The changes to their physiology conferred downsides to both species: the newts weren’t able to produce as many offspring when they were diverting so much energy to creating toxins, and the snakes weren’t able to move very quickly because of the chemical pathways that made them immune to the poison.
At the time, Chi Cheng had found the whole thing rather silly. If it was so bad for both animals, why did they not just avoid each other? Why did the newts not get better at hiding? Why did the garter snakes not find another food source? He had asked his older sister about it, and she had merely shrugged.
“Maybe they can’t avoid each other,” she had offered as an explanation. “Or maybe it’s worth the pain that it causes them, so they don’t want to avoid each other.”
The living room was hot. Of course, each of the twenty-odd vivariums in it had its own climate control, but the combined effort of all the heaters made the entire room into a sweltering, humid jungle. Chi Cheng reclined on the couch, sweat beading on his brow and a glass of whiskey clutched in one hand. In the other was his phone, which he was swiping through with his thumb. Last week he had set up all his snake terrariums with automatic thermostats and humidifiers, which determined the conditions in each of the tanks. The sensors were also able to connect to his phone via bluetooth, and he could monitor the tanks from there. As had become his habit since the installation, he was scrolling through the readouts from all the tanks, ensuring they were all doing well.
“Why are you always on that app?” Guo Chengyu scoffed. “The snakes are right here. You can just look at them.” As he always did, he plopped down on the couch between the arm of the sofa and Chi Cheng, rather than settling himself on the other side where there was ample space. Chengyu reminded Chi Cheng of a reptile, the way he seemed to need to press as much of his body as possible against another, desperately seeking warmth despite the cloying heat of the room. He settled against Chi Cheng, draping one of his legs across Chi Cheng’s lap, and grabbed the phone out of his hand.
“Give me that!” Chi Cheng snapped, attempting and failing to snatch his phone back. They had already been out drinking all night, and his reflexes were sluggish. Chengyu carelessly dropped his phone behind the couch, ignoring how Chi Cheng scowled at him. He had been in a bad mood at the start of the evening, and not even a dozen drinks could dampen it. He and Wang Shuo had gotten into another fight. Chi Cheng could barely remember about what, just that it had involved both of them yelling. He had a faint memory of shattering glass, but had no idea what had been thrown or who had thrown it.
His head lolled back, finding comfort against Chengyu’s shoulder. That was what the fight had been about, he recalled. Guo Chengyu. It was always about Guo Chengyu. Sometimes, Wang Shuo seemed enamoured by the other man. Unable to keep his hands to himself, Wang Shuo would caress and pinch at Chengyu, taunting him. Chi Cheng’s vision would turn red and he would grab his boyfriend’s wrists and scold him. More often though, Wang Shuo seemed to hate Chengyu. He’d pout and whine about how he could never have Chi Cheng to himself. There was always Chengyu.
“Going to sleep already? The night is still young.” Chengyu patted Chi Cheng’s cheek; without realizing it, he had closed his eyes.
“Why don’t you like Wang Shuo?” Chi Cheng didn’t know where the question came from. He certainly hadn’t meant to ask. It was the whiskey, he decided. He had had far too much to drink, and it was making him act crazy.
Chengyu seemed unfazed. “I like Wang Shuo just fine.” At some point he had lit a cigarette. He brought it to his mouth and inhaled deeply. As he breathed out the acrid smoke, he held it to Chi Cheng. He took the cigarette in his mouth, his lips grazing against Chengyu’s fingers.
“Well, why doesn’t he like you?”
A surprised huff of laughter. “I don’t know, gēgē. You’ll have to ask him.”
Mouth dry, Chi Cheng turned his head to down the rest of his whiskey. “Sometimes I think he’s jealous.” He turned back and his breath caught in his throat. Chengyu had tilted his head so that when Chi Cheng looked at him they were only inches apart.
“What does he have to be jealous of?” Chengyu murmured. Chi Cheng could feel his smoky breath on his face. He took in the other man’s features with a new appreciation: his liquid eyes, the elegant line of his jaw, his plush and expressive mouth. Chengyu was beautiful. Maybe he had never noticed because he was always there. Chi Cheng couldn’t think of the last time he had gone more than a day without seeing Guo Chengyu. Even when they argued, they’d sit in sulky silence instead of seeking their own space.
Without meaning to, Chi Cheng leaned in. Sweat trickled down his neck. Chengyu’s gaze followed the droplet, dark and hungry. Their lips brushed against each other, not quite yet a kiss. They had kissed before, a few times. Usually with Wang Shuo egging them on with that hungry smirk. This was different. There was no Wang Shuo, no jeering bar patrons, no camera. They teetered on the edge of a precipice, and it was clear that Chengyu was ready to fall off with him.
Chi Cheng pulled back. “You should go. Wang Shuo will be home soon.” He didn’t need to be told that his boyfriend was out drinking with his friends. When they fought like this, Wang Shuo would call up his latest gaggle of mean twinks, and Chi Cheng would call Guo Chengyu. He expected that Wang Shuo would stumble home in the early hours of the morning, and the fight would start again if Chengyu was here.
For a moment, Chengyu didn’t move. He watched Chi Cheng thoughtfully, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. “Fine.” He stood up and crushed the cigarette in a nearby ashtray. Before he left, he crouched down in front of Chi Cheng. With gentle fingers he brushed the hair off his forehead and cradled his cheek in his palm. “Drink some water, gēgē.”
Chi Cheng waved him off, ignoring the way his stomach plummeted at the tender touch. “Stop calling me that,” he grumbled. “I’m only a month older than you.” Chengyu laughed. Chi Cheng’s eyelids were heavy, and they dropped closed of their own accord. When he mustered up the strength to open them again, Guo Chengyu was gone.
It was a miracle he survived the drive. He was so furious, so filled with white-hot rage, that his vision blurred and his hands shook. Somehow, by some miracle, he didn’t get in an accident on his way to Chengyu’s house.
He pulled up in front of the house, tires spinning wildly as they made fresh gouges into the lawn. He threw the car into park and stepped out, leaving the engine running and the headlights on, illuminating Chengyu’s front door in stark black and white. The door opened easily; it hadn’t been locked. As if Chengyu had been expecting him.
The lights were on and muted rock music poured from a speaker. Chengyu was cooking, sure hands stirring meat and vegetables in a pan as they sizzled on the stove. “Hello, Chi Cheng,” he greeted without looking up from his task.
Chi Cheng was breathing hard, like a raging bull. His hands flexed in and out of fists at his side. “You slept with him.” His voice was still raspy from his screaming match with his now-ex-boyfriend. “You slept with Wang Shuo.”
Chengyu, damn him, still wouldn’t look up. “I did.”
The dispassionate confession pushed Chi Cheng over the edge. With an animalistic roar he charged Chengyu, grabbing him around the midsection and throwing him down on the cold kitchen floor. Other than a shout of surprise, he still wouldn’t react. In a frenzy, Chi Cheng straddled Chengyu and rained blows down on his dearest friend. His beautiful face was soon a mess of blood and snot. And still, he did not fight back.
Chi Cheng only stopped when he realized he was crying. Great heaving sobs wracked his body so much that he couldn’t move, let alone continue the beating. He sat back on his heels and buried his face in his hands. The betrayal from the two people he loved most in the world had broken him. Nothing that Chengyu did in retaliation could hurt more than that.
Two arms wrapped around him. A hand pressed against the back of his skull, cradling his face against a broad chest. Chengyu made nonsense comforting sounds, hushes and murmurs, interrupted every breath by the bloody wheeze of him inhaling through his broken nose.
“I’ll never forgive you,” Chi Cheng cried against Chengyu, tears splattering his shirt with dark drops. “I hate you.”
“I know.”