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“You look unnerved.”
“Ah, well… No, I’m fine… I really am. It’s just… Um.”
I didn’t know you existed before today. Dan Heng never mentioned you once!
But wouldn’t that be too rude to say outright? Sunday couldn’t help but think as much, regardless of how strange this encounter was.
There had been a knock on his apartment door. He hadn’t been expecting anyone but he wasn’t a stranger to his acquaintances (he struggled to think of them as friends) showing up unannounced. Stelle and March could certainly be unpredictable… But Dan Heng usually texted him in advance.
Thus, he had been surprised to see what looked like Dan Heng standing on his doorstep. Only he looked different.
More mature, refined, a sharper jawline and longer hair tied back in a tidy ponytail. He had only ever seen Dan Heng with long hair once. In a picture that Stelle waved around as blackmail material that had wound up in his hands while Dan Heng was trying to snatch it away. Right before Dan Heng had snatched it away.
(Sunday always privately thought that long hair looked better on him. But he conceded that shorter hair suited him more.)
This Dan Heng was also dressed in rather expensive clothing. A fine navy blue overcoat and form-fitting slacks. The Dan Heng he knew was more partial to worn out hoodies and well-worn jackets. A practical young man, through and through.
This couldn’t have been Dan Heng. And yet, his eyes were the same shade of piercing emerald.
Many things had run through Sunday’s mind at once. But what came out of his mouth was a perfectly pleasant,
“I’m sorry. Dan Heng is not here right now.”
And not-Dan Heng raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t expect him to be,” he said.
“Oh,” Sunday replied. “I see.”
How much time passed as they stared at one another? Sunday couldn’t tell, not when he was utterly baffled by this turn of events.
“Would you…like some tea?”
At the end of the day, he had been raised to be gracious and polite regardless of the company. So he fell back on what he knew, unable to get over the unsettling feeling that the world was unraveling beneath his feet.
The imposter gave a wordless nod, stepping inside his apartment as if nothing was amiss at all. He looked around and normally Sunday would be a little self-conscious about how clean and orderly he kept everything, but…
Somehow he doubted a person wearing a fine coat like that would expect anything less.
Sunday brewed the tea in heavy silence, avoiding the imposter’s gaze as he set out the sugar cubes and honey. Dan Heng preferred everything sour and bitter for the sake of testing his willpower or whatever, but Sunday couldn’t be sure this man with the same eyes would have the same taste.
And it wasn’t until Sunday had served the tea that he introduced himself.
“Dan Feng. Dan Heng is my younger twin brother.”
“Oh,” Sunday said. “I see.”
What else could he say? What else should he do? Sunday sat, adding more sugar than he usually would, and now they were in the present.
“Dan Heng and I are estranged,” Dan Feng explained, ever candid as if he was discussing the weather. “It does not surprise me that no mention of me passed his lips. I assume you never knew I existed before today.”
Sunday swirled around his tea, plastic smile on his face.
“I admit, I was a little taken aback. And I do not know why you’ve visited me. Dan Heng and I… We do know one another, but, ah… I’m hardly one of his close friends.”
I doubt he even sees me as a friend, truth be told.
“Is that so?” Dan Feng’s head tilted a little to the side. A little like Dan Heng but not quite. “You work with him on his books.”
“I edit them, yes, but…” Sunday tried not to sputter. “It’s… It’s a very business-like relationship. Have you read them?”
“Yes. They’re utter drivel.”
Dan Feng spoke coldly and bluntly without a hint of remorse. While Dan Heng had certainly received harsh criticism in the past, it was a little different hearing such from his…estranged twin brother.
“Oh.” Sunday felt like a broken record. Somehow, his smile didn't twitch. “How unfortunate you feel that way.”
“It’s unfortunate for you that your name is attached to such drivel,” Dan Feng sighed. “My brother should be a tad more prudent.”
And how do you know my name?
Sunday was quite proud of himself for keeping his smile from twitching.
“I don’t think it’s unfortunate. I’m always happy to be of assistance.”
It’s not as though I have much else to do, he didn’t say. If I wasn’t editing Dan Heng’s work, I’d be utterly listless.
Dan Feng waved him off.
“I do think it a shame. I’ve read my brother’s works, never once finding myself impressed. But I noticed you worked with him on most of them so I did become curious. Even more so when I did my research.”
Here, Sunday felt his body lock up just as he would have lifted the teacup to his lips. His mind rushed a kilometer per minute. His stomach churned. A second longer and he would have felt ill enough to retreat.
“You had a few novels published as well,” Dan Feng went on. “And your body of work… Comparing you to Dan Heng is akin to comparing night and day.”
“With all due respect.” Sunday’s voice had tightened considerably. “That was a long time ago. I’ve since retired.”
“Such a shame,” Dan Feng hummed. “Your first novel was rather unrefined but full of promise and charm. Your second was remarkable indeed. The Harmonious Choir, wasn’t it?”
Sunday kept quiet. His heart pounded like the beat of a drum. Dan Feng hummed yet again, the sound despicably melodic.
“Two twins born within a cult to create a new world, the sister breaking free to forge her own path, but the brother staying behind. She goes on quite the journey, meeting all sorts of eccentric people along the way. She returns home to stop the cult, and is shocked to find…”
“That’s enough.”
Sunday didn’t raise his voice. Dan Feng shut his mouth. His expression was inquisitive in a way that Dan Heng had never been. Never around him.
“Why are you here?” Sunday demanded, still quiet, still restrained lest he start screaming. “I… You… Dan Heng and I are not that close. He’s never once mentioned you. I do not know anything about you. And yet. Here you are… I-In my house… Bringing up such old, long forgotten novels…”
“They’re not forgotten.” Dan Feng seemed to take offense at that. “In my research, I found people praising them online to this day.”
“They’re better forgotten,” Sunday snapped. “Especially when the following works were so disappointing. As I said, I’ve since retired. I couldn’t write like that again if I tried. I lack the passion and drive. Your brother. He… He may not be very articulate, and his structure might be overly bloated. But he has passion. You shouldn’t diminish his efforts simply because you do not appreciate the work he puts out.”
Dan Feng stared at him.
“Lacking passion and drive, you say,” he mused. “I wonder if that’s true.”
“I don’t want to talk about this! Please leave!”
He had regretted the words as soon as he said them, of course, but he didn’t take them back. His mind was racing, racing, racing, and his eyes began to burn. His vision even blurred.
“Ah,” Dan Feng said. “I see I overstepped. I apologize, then, but I would like to continue this discussion at a later date.”
He slid something on the table. It looked like a business card.
“The tea was lovely, Sunday. Thank you.”
After saying his name with such dizzying familiarity, Dan Feng stood and left, leaving behind only an empty teacup and that card.
Sunday did the dishes wordlessly, poured the rest of the tea down the sink, and he ended up slicing his finger on the card, red blossoming in the corner, brushing oh so lightly against the elegant script of Dan Feng’s name.
Sunday stared at it until it hurt his gaze. There was really only one appropriate response to all that transpired.
“What the hell was any of that?”
He and Dan Heng were not friends. It’s important to make that clear.
The reason why they met was because of happenstance. They visited the same library. Sunday had adored that library. He had met the owner through the church and they were kind enough to let him volunteer there.
Dan Heng frequented the library. He liked the quiet. He liked the calm.
Sunday also liked the quiet and the calm, but he also found Dan Heng to be rather peculiar. A handsome young man with a gaze as cold as emerald, oceanic depths. An unreadable expression. An elegant hand, dutifully typing away on his laptop.
It was only when Dan Heng had spent a long time squinting irritably at his laptop without typing that Sunday thought to ask if he needed anything. He was only trying to be cordial. They hadn’t had a conversation before and he didn’t know Dan Heng’s name.
He was only trying to be nice.
(He wasn’t lonely at all.)
Despite that reserved, serious demeanor, Dan Heng did talk once prompted. Sunday listened, feeling a keen sense of nostalgia, but he only commented when it seemed appropriate. Dan Heng confessed to a case of writer’s block, and Sunday offered to help him through it..
That was it. That was all. It hadn’t been the start of a friendship.
In the aftermath of that strange, strange encounter with Dan Feng, Sunday did try to regain a sense of normalcy.
Get up, get ready, step outside. Do volunteer work wherever he can to make the community shine a little brighter.
(It’s not enough. Never enough. But if Robin can be satisfied with this then does he have the right to…?)
Lunch. Right. He hadn’t eaten today.
He stopped by the usual café, where March was working her shift. She greeted him, of course, all bubbly smiles because she enjoyed this job. She loved helping around.
She did not like seeing Sunday, but she didn’t dislike him either. None of Dan Heng’s friends had an unkind word to say about him. They were good people. Good friends. With Dan Heng.
“Soooo, how’s Dan Heng’s next book going?” March asked as she wrote down his usual order. March was quite proud of her memory, so he didn’t really request it anymore.
And he didn’t wish to burst her bubble, so he never tried anything new. Not that he would’ve been ever inclined to do so. Sometimes, that woman’s words resurface, scratching along the inside of his skull like a beast begging to be let out, out, out, out–
“Ah, it’s going well.” Smile like normal. Not so much as a twitch. “Thank you as always, Miss March.”
March giggled, pleased to be praised and treated like a more mature young woman. She was sweet. She was simple. She reminded him a little of Robin.
But only a little.
Sunday seated himself by the window, fiddling with the card in his pocket, heart hammering. The day went on like normal. People strolled by. Those two girls were busking again. He thought about how Robin would sometimes sing on corners for no reason other than just to spread a little bit of extra joy.
Stelle let herself in with a shout, getting scolded by March in the process. She rushed by, either not noticing or not really caring about his presence. He watched her and March bicker, and Stelle’s energy also reminded him a little of Robin.
But only a little. Many girls reminded him of Robin these days.
Sunday thought himself used to this nostalgia, this listlessness, but the more time ticked by, the more he dug that card’s stained corner into his finger.
He still retrieved his order with a smile, returned Stelle’s casual greeting with a more polite form of address and nod, and he didn’t look back.
Perhaps he should have looked back.
“Oh.”
Dan Feng blinked at him. From where he was standing by Sunday’s very own door.
“How fortuitous,” he said. “I did not think I would get to see you today.”
Fortuitous for Dan Feng. Not so much for Sunday himself, who very graciously managed to not drop nor crush his drink. Who still smiled very graciously.
“I seem to recall telling you only yesterday to leave my house,” Sunday reminded him, voice flat despite that smile. “Ah, it’s quite inappropriate to find you here. Wouldn’t you think the same, in my shoes?”
“I suppose so,” Dan Feng admitted. When he made no move to gracefully bow out of Sunday’s life, all they could do was stare at one another.
“Please leave,” Sunday said, grateful that his voice didn’t shake. “I do not wish to meet with you or speak with you.”
“Hm.”
Dan Feng’s face was unreadable. Often so was Dan Heng’s. Sunday managed to avoid his gaze. In doing so, he realized Dan Feng was carrying something.
“An apology,” Dan Feng explained, seemingly noticing his glance. “For my behavior yesterday.”
“Thank you.” Sunday had always been raised to be polite, but… “Please leave.”
Dan Feng did leave, but not before giving Sunday the apology gift as he left. Once Sunday retreated inside his home, he opened the box to discover it was a strawberry sponge cake.
The most perfectly made of its kind, in fact. The icing, the strawberries, the texture, the sweetness. All of it was perfect and especially wonderful as it was his favorite dessert.
Something that Sunday had only sheepishly admitted to the public during an author interview years ago.
Dan Heng’s arrival is preceded by three swift knocks. Even if the rhythm isn’t consistent, the force of each knock is.
To his credit, Sunday opens the door with his usual smile. The past week was uneventful. Safe. Simple. Nothing more of note after those two bizarre encounters with Dan Feng.
That name lingers on his tongue, but Sunday addresses only the present,
“Dan Heng. It’s good to see you. Come in.”
“Sunday,” Dan Heng says. His usual curt greeting. He has his worn down shoulder bag on one side and a bag from the café in his other hand. He always came with sweets even though Sunday insisted it wasn’t necessary.
It was a kind gesture, but sometimes it made their relationship feel transactional.
I’m helping him to be nice, not to get anything out of it.
But rather than voice such pitiful gripes, Sunday steps aside so that Dan Heng can seat himself at the table. After setting the bag of sweets on the table, he doesn’t waste time before rifling through his transcript.
A stack of printed words, all for Sunday to mark up to his heart’s content.
This was always how it went for them, and Sunday had no real complaints. He would take a couple of new pens (the last ran out of ink and had to restock), would sit down, and he’d start reading through, marking the first errors he sees.
A lot of the time, it was a quiet process. Sunday would only speak up if he found a passage that he felt would be better restructured, a time where more in-depth words would be more appropriate. Dan Heng would nod, would listen, and really, how could Sunday have any complaints?
He was an editor, albeit one that blurred the line of professional and casual far too much for his own liking. Dan Heng just entrusted everything to him when in reality, there should have been some discussion and pushback.
But how could he complain?
Sunday has read so many of Dan Heng’s transcripts, but he can’t read Dan Heng himself so easily.
His twin is even more enigmatic, he thought, unwillingly, unhappily. His heart was pounding just at the memory.
He took a break from editing. Not because he wanted to, but because he carefully measured how much time it would take before Dan Heng insisted on such a thing. He liked to avoid such exchanges.
Dan Heng bought him an éclair and a blueberry donut. Both he liked…but not as much as the strawberry sponge cake.
Stop thinking about him.
It was difficult not to. Dan Heng was studying him as always. His emerald gaze is piercing and unreadable as always. But like this, Sunday cannot help but re-categorize the similarities and differences.
And then Dan Heng’s gaze narrows.
“Is there something you wish to say?” His tone was aloof, almost cold, but Sunday knew him well enough to know he was more confused than offended.
“Ah…” Sunday swallows. Suddenly the pastry was cloying in his throat as he tried to swallow it down. “No, I apologize. I am just…thinking.”
Dan Heng raises an eyebrow. It wasn’t as well-groomed as his brother’s. How strange to notice.
“About?”
Sunday is grateful for his gloves, given how clammy his hands get at such prompting. Just why is Dan Heng curious? Was his staring too intense?
Keep control. Keep it all under control.
“W… Writing.” Sunday’s voice almost squeaked. Shameful. “Aha, I, ah, I thought maybe I should pick up writing again. I enjoy reading your work, of course. It makes me nostalgic.”
That much was true. Regardless of Dan Heng’s lacking talent, Sunday quite enjoyed his writing. It may have been clumsy and unrefined, but there was a passion to it that he envied.
A passion he thought he long lost.
“Hm.” Dan Heng did relax a little, which Sunday didn’t understand but brushed aside. “Right, you wrote in the past.”
“I did. It’s…been some time…”
He trails off. Dan Heng lets out a neutral hum. He seems a little contemplative, but not terribly invested.
“You should try. I can look it over when you’re done if you like.”
Aah, Dan Heng. So straight-forward and predictable. Eye for an eye, although Sunday appreciates reciprocity. They may not have been friends, but Dan Heng was kind all the same.
“If I even finish anything,” Sunday laughs, voice like a dented bell. “It has been a long time, but if I finish anything… I’ll let you know.”
Dan Heng nods, not suspecting anything. How kind. How simple.
Sunday felt his stomach curl as his mind wondered what expression Dan Feng would make.
He finished the pastries. He finished editing. He sent Dan Heng out on his way. And once he was sure that Dan Heng left the area, he felt his palms sweat anew in his gloves.
The corner of the card had long since turned a sickening shade of brown. But the print hadn’t faded even a little, no matter how much Sunday rubbed it. It must have been expensive.
Sunday listens to the ring, that sickness spreading through his core, beset by a madness he had thought he stamped down years ago.
He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be calling. And yet. And yet.
“Hello? How did you get this number?”
Dan Heng’s voice, but lower and richer. Sunday’s breath caught, his greeting stuck in his throat.
“Hello?” Dan Feng sounds irritated now. “Whoever gave you this…”
A pause. Dan Feng seems to have realized something.
“Sunday Oak?”
“Y-Yes! Present,” Sunday bursts out, flustered. “I-I apologize, I… I don’t know what I was thinking… S-Sorry to bother you, I’ll…”
“Wait.” Sunday freezes. “You wished to discuss something with me?”
A cool tone, but Sunday heard the spark of expectation. A lesser man would find it daunting if not terrifying, but Sunday felt a familiar, resentful ache.
“You… Your card. It says you’re an agent. But…” Sunday swallows. “But that is not all you do. You’re the head of an entire company. Why are you bothering with such things?”
With me? He didn’t specify, even though the implication was clear.
“Ah, yes, you could call it a side-hobby,” Dan Feng says, and Sunday wonders what he’s doing. Is he spinning around a pen? Playing with his hair? Sitting perfectly still in an office? He shouldn’t be so curious. “I have far too much free time and like to invest in the arts. Is that so surprising?”
“No.” Sunday feels a little dizzy. “I suppose you are a bit strange. Dan Heng never mentioned you… And I do not think it…appropriate to ask him about you.”
“Hm. So you wished to speak about Dan Heng?” Dan Feng sounds a little unimpressed. “I’m afraid I don’t know that much about him.”
It was a chance to undo this madness. Keeping the topic on Dan Heng would allow him the opportunity to finally stamp down these urges and this wretched longing and to regain that precious, unremarkable normalcy.
And, yet.
“No,” Sunday sighs, pressing a hand to his head. “I… I’ve been in a writing slump for years. I thought I had given up on it. I had given up. But you… You’ve really made a mess of things… Ah, sir.”
He remembered his manners a little too late, but Sunday was nothing if not stubborn.
“If you’ve looked into my works, you would know how badly Eighth Day did. Critics and readers were scathing. It was called vapid and uninspired. Nothing more than a cheap cash grab! As if I needed that!” Sunday bit his tongue lest he childishly curse even more. He bit himself hard enough to taste iron, and that bitterness helped anchor him. “And every work following was a flop as well. You wouldn’t be blamed for thinking I had nothing left to offer as a writer.”
“No, I would not,” Dan Feng says bluntly. So bluntly that Sunday wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry.
“I do not believe that, though,” Dan Feng says then, making the world still. “Passion like that isn’t so easily lost, even if it will be far more difficult to regain sight of it now.”
Sunday’s lips were trembling. He thanked the heavens that this conversation was taking place over the phone.
“Do you really think I can regain it?” he asks, his voice so pitifully small.
“Why do you think I approached you?”
Oh.
“O-Oh,” Sunday manages. “Oh… Okay. Um. Thank you. H-Have a nice day.”
He hung up before Dan Feng could say another word, and he finally crumbled to the floor.
Later, Dan Feng sent a text.
“Let’s meet again. I’ve made a reservation here. Do you need someone to pick you up?”
Sunday had half a mind to erase the text and block the number. He didn’t do either of those things.
“No, I can make it on my own. Do not worry. :)”
It would be a walk, but public transport would shorten enough of the distance. He just had to dig through his old clothes for something, anything fancy enough to not make a fool out of himself before saying so much as a word.
As expected, the restaurant was stuffy and overbearing. Aah, how nostalgic in the worst of ways.
But it was tolerable. No matter how heavy the stench of wine and how loud the vapid chatter and clink, clink, clinks of fancy sterling silverware. Sunday would manage, wearing a fine dining stifling attire that irritatingly still fit.
He was led to the table that Dan Feng reserved, finding himself in a closed off room with an inappropriately large table for two and the company head sipping leisurely at a wine that his father once favored.
Dan Feng waves him over rather than offering a greeting. Sunday really wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or scream.
He takes his seat instead, requesting only water and having less than a sliver of interest in perusing the establishment’s menu.
“It is a good thing you arrived,” Dan Feng says. He lifts a before-unseen bag from the ground, setting it on the table. It was just a paper bag, its edges defined from the items within. “I would have hated to bring this here for nothing. Here.”
He pushes it towards Sunday, and Sunday is already despairing about the lack of windows in this room for him to jump out of.
“What is this?” he asks dumbly, if only to hear the explanation in words.
In this, Dan Feng did not disappoint.
“Novels and DVDs. By other genius authors and directors, of course. Did you think I would offer a more mediocre guidance? If you needed an example of someone whose craft is poor…”
“Please. Not another word.” Sunday wondered if it would hurt Dan Feng’s reputation if he threw up on the carpet. But he hadn’t eaten anything, so it would only be phlegm and acid. “I’m still not sure if I wish to take up writing again. You didn’t have to go this far.”
“Please. It was hardly any trouble at all.” Dan Feng rolls his eyes. “Acquiring these materials could have been done in my sleep.”
Sunday didn’t doubt that. It also didn’t reassure him.
“A slump that has spanned years isn’t going to be so easily gotten over,” Sunday says, voice hushed and strained. “It might even be impossible. I, um, I appreciate your faith in me, but it’s hardly realistic.”
“I’ve been told as much before about other things.” Dan Feng brushes him off with ease. “Do you have a point?”
Of course. Someone this affluent wouldn’t be rational. He’s not going to be like Dan Heng in that regard.
“I’m just concerned about wasting your time,” Sunday says, voice smoothing out as he remembered exactly how to speak with such people. “I haven’t written in so long, and I haven’t written anything good in an even longer stretch of time. For years I agonized over this, and it hasn’t been that long since I’ve resigned myself to failure. While I appreciate your faith and consideration, I worry about disappointing you. I’ve already disappointed so many people, sir. What makes you think you won’t be any different?”
Dan Feng doesn’t miss a beat in his response.
“I simply do not think it.”
Simple. Straight-forward. Like Dan Heng but not. Insufferable. Striking.
Like being trapped in the eye of a predator, Sunday is utterly helpless in a serpent’s coils, and so Dan Feng digs his fangs into Sunday’s heart with such simple, idiotic words.
Sunday snatched up the bag.
“I-I think maybe I should go,” he manages, gripping the bag close as though it were the difference between survival and drowning.
“After coming all this way?” Dan Feng frowns. “After dressing up like that? Can you sit down and take a meal, at least?”
“I-I don’t know if I can,” he stammers. “I don’t…”
“Do it, Mr. Oak.” Dan Feng’s tone left no room for argument. “I’ll have you driven home after you’ve eaten something.”
In the end, there was no escaping.
Sunday had the most expensive, luxurious meal he’s eaten in several years. Nostalgia was bitter on his tongue alongside the richest of meats and sweetest of fruits. In the end, he left that restaurant with a bag full of novels and DVDs in one hand and a magazine in the other.
“If you work better under pressure, then enter this short story contest. The theme is unspoken yet passionate love. Once you’ve finished your entry, then send it to me. But if you wish to write something else, then go for it. Let me know what you decide.”
Those directions were the last things Dan Feng said. And Sunday had been so baffled and flustered that he nodded meekly and mumbled something along the lines of, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Sunday rode the train in a daze, disoriented and bizarrely grateful. He always did better under pressure and guidance over just being given free reign to do whatever. In fact, he usually did very poorly when lacking direction…
Unspoken yet passionate love.
A vague theme, but it brought to mind many of those silly romantic dramas in which a young girl watched her crush from afar. Or a gallant young man…watching over his own crush from a distance. Such stories were guilty pleasures, so…surely Sunday could write something along those lines?
Dan Feng said to enter, he thought. He didn’t say I had to win… Although I would like to…
His heart was pounding. His stop was announced. Each new step was accompanied by a flutter even as Sunday did struggle a bit, lugging that obnoxiously heavy bag home.
Dan Feng is a reprehensible person. Pushy, self-centered, unsettling. But for some reason…
Sunday thought about those eyes. So similar and yet so different from Dan Heng’s in retrospect. Both a piercing shade of verdigris, and yet while Dan Heng’s gaze was akin to still, calm waters, with Dan Feng, it felt like something lurked within those depths.
Something that wrapped its cold fingers around Sunday’s wrist and plunged him into that chill. It was shocking. Electrifying.
And it was the first time someone ever made him feel so alive. There was no escaping, and a part of Sunday didn’t wish to.
What was cobbled together had the grace of a baby fawn. Or perhaps a baby bird, little wings flapping pitifully as it plummeted to the ground. Sunday didn’t even think he could reread it without trying to drown himself in the nearest river.
Or perhaps his own bathtub.
And yet, in spite of his better judgement, he sent it to Dan Feng’s personal email. Why? Why?!
Hypnosis, Sunday considers. Brainwashing. Pure insanity. It really could have been anything.
He could have at least sent it to Dan Heng because Dan Heng would be straight-forward with his feedback. Sure, Sunday…doubted Dan Heng’s wisdom when it came to matters of the heart, but it wasn’t as if Sunday was experienced, either.
But no. In a state of madness, he sent it to Dan Feng.
Who was, ah, calling him right this moment.
Instead of flinging his phone out a window, Sunday answers the phone, all polite smiles and twitching fingers.
“Mr. Dan Feng, I know I sent you the draft in a bit of a shameful state, but could you have at least waited an hour before lecturing me?”
“That’s not why I’m calling,” Dan Feng says, voice flat and unreadable. He sounded so much like Dan Heng over the phone that Sunday felt dizzy again. “Actually I have not yet read it.”
Well, that was…sensible, right? Sunday had just sent it. Yes. Very sensible.
Then why the hell are you calling me?! Sunday wanted to ask but had the sensibility not to.
“Oh… I see.” Smile, smile. Twitch, twitch. “Then, um… Is something wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong at all. The opposite, in fact. I’m very happy. Euphoric, even.”
Dan Feng didn’t sound happy.
“I do thank you, Sunday Oak. For everything.”
“Uh… You’re welcome?” Sunday’s own heart is racing and he’s not sure if it’s apprehension, bewilderment or something else. “I… No, I’m…glad to hear that.”
If his words are true, then he’s happy at just the idea of reading my work.
Oh. Oh, no.
Oh no, no, no, this sort of feeling was positively sinful.
“L-Let me know what you think when you’re done, Mr. Dan Feng.” He shouldn’t be stammering like this. “I-I want to hear from you… As soon as possible…”
“Understood. Apologies for the sudden call. Take care, Sunday.”
His cheeks were warm, burning to his ears.
“Take care…”
Just like that, the call ended.
About thirty minutes later, Sunday received a callback.
“Are you available?”
“I…answered the phone, didn’t I?” Sunday nearly bites his tongue, wondering how he could have fallen so low as to lack impulse control. “Um. Yes. Yes, I’m available. Why?”
“Get your things ready. I’m picking you up in ten minutes to do some field study.”
“...what?”
“Field study. Ten minutes. Get ready.”
Dan Feng hung up without any further explanation. It was only from force of habit of doing what he was told that Sunday managed to properly dress himself and pack his usual bag within the ten minutes (on the dot) between the call ending and there being a firm knock on his door.
Three swift knocks, actually, of consistent rhythm. The same force applied each time.
Sunday answers the door to gawk at Dan Feng, dressed in a well-cut suit with his hair elegantly pinned up. The stick appeared to have a rather regal dragon at the end, which was easier to stare at over Dan Feng’s well-defined cheekbones or thin, lilac lips. Or especially that captivating gaze.
“Let’s go.” Dan Feng’s tone left no room for argument. So that was that.
During the so-called field study, Sunday could only think of one thing.
Why? Why? Why?!
Why a love hotel?!
It was a rather fancy establishment in spite of its…services. The décor was quite chic, consisting of plush couches, a plusher bed, and a nice little chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The shade of pink was more classy than offensive to the eye. One could almost mistake it for a normal hotel room!
Sunday sat on the couch, feeling it sink pleasantly under his weight. All while his heart was clawing at his ribcage, screaming for escape. His mind raced several marathons, unable to grasp how his decisions led here.
A love hotel. With the estranged twin brother of an associate. Who he’s only known for a few weeks.
“I apologize for the suddenness,” Dan Feng says, brewing a coffee with zero attempts made at looking even a little apologetic. “But after reading that draft, I was…displeased.”
“Excuse me?” Sunday twitches. His body flushes with a heat he can only compare to anger. “You dragged me here just to tell me that?”
“It was such a boring draft,” Dan Feng complains, not even dignifying him with a response. “So trite and vapid. You’ve never been in love before, have you?”
“S… So what if I haven’t!” This was so much more humiliating than he feared. If not for his adherence to good manners and the fact that he didn’t think he could look Dan Feng’s driver in the eye and demand to be taken home, Sunday would have just walked out. “I-Is it not the point of fiction to explore possibilities previously thought to be unreachable?”
“Sure, you do not need to be an expert in every subject in your work,” Dan Feng concedes, striding over to sit next to Sunday. Sunday, unfortunately, was too flustered to tell him he wasn’t welcome, so he sipped his coffee without a care before continuing, “But you should do some research to give off at least an air of expertise.”
Sunday makes a face at him.
“Love is not simply attraction,” Dan Feng goes on, voice lowering alongside those unfairly long lashes over his emerald eyes. “It is also a thrilling chase, a series of subtle mind games.”
“I don’t…know about that…” Sunday manages not to sputter. “Even romantic love manifests in multiple ways.”
“And how would you know that if you haven’t experienced it for yourself or done any research?”
Sunday had no answer to that, although he did have the intrusive thought of setting himself on fire.
“Anyway, this is research,” Dan Feng says, setting down his mug. “Or rather, it’s method acting. I brought you here so that we can play out a scene between lovers, which should help you get into the mindset of a romance.”
Sunday refuses to even look at this madman.
“I question the efficiency of such…methods.”
“Better this than nothing,” Dan Feng replies. “Is there anything you’ve ever thought about doing with a significant other?”
“I…” Sunday feels his cheeks burn and he’s too ashamed to admit it’s not from anger. “Waking…up together?”
“Alright. Onto the bed.”
They got onto the bed. Laid side by side. Sunday’s heart hammered far too hard for him to even imagine sleeping at a time like this. They were close. He could smell Dan Feng’s cologne like this.
“Is the bed a suitable size?” Dan Feng asks. His fringe framed his handsome face quite well. It was almost artistic in a way.
Suitable for what exactly? Sunday couldn’t respond.
“What do you think?” Dan Feng asks next. “You’ve never been to an establishment like this, right?”
Of course not!
“It’s…clean and looks…very respectable…” Sunday had about reached his limit. He pushes himself up, trying not to wince from his heart pounding far too hard. “T-This is unsightly and embarrassing. I don’t think I can continue like this.”
“You act so innocent, Mr. Oak,” Dan Feng murmurs as Sunday avoids his stare. “And yet, you portrayed such raw and intense emotions in The Harmonious Choir.”
Sunday bristles, but relents.
“It’s not that strange. As I was growing up, I was more focused on my family. My sister’s career… And my father… I’ve only ever experienced romance in the abstract sense of meeting people to form connections. There were quite a few women lined up for my hand, and I assume you know what that’s like.”
Dan Feng says nothing. It should have pleased Sunday a little, but instead it felt bitter.
“After everything my father worked for was stripped down and bought up, do you want to know what Lady Bonajade said to me?” Sunday lets his voice drop into a patronizing sneer. “Sever your wings. Descend to the mortal realm, and walk their lands. See what this world is truly like.”
Even now, those words pulled at him viscerally, akin to hooks in his flesh.
“But even now I haven’t experienced falling in love,” Sunday adds, voice small and dull as he lies back down. “Perhaps I’m just a solitary person.”
I don’t even think I have friends.
Dan Feng hums.
“Lady Bonajade had quite the pretentious way of going about it.”
I get the feeling you shouldn’t be the one saying that.
“But what does she mean by this world? Do people all experience the same world? I would argue not. Dan Heng and I are twins, but estranged as we are, our experiences, our worlds, are completely different.”
That… Sunday couldn’t disagree with.
“Perhaps loneliness and solitude is one thing we all share, even if it may take on different forms,” Dan Feng muses.
“Are you lonely?” Sunday asks on wretched impulse.
“Yes. Quite.” Dan Feng turns to face him. “But it is not so bad when I read stories. You’ll write me something good, won’t you?”
Before, I’ve only ever met people in the abstract sense to form connections. And yet.
What was between them wasn’t just a connection. Dan Feng had Sunday in his grasp and was dragging him to unfathomable depths. And yet, no matter how strange and terrifying those depths were…
Sunday couldn’t pull away.
In the end, the romance was scrapped and Sunday wrote something else. He even reread it a few times before printing it out and requesting that Dan Feng only read it after they met face to face again.
This time, Sunday chose the meeting place. It was a rather small diner that he frequented whenever he didn’t wish to cook. The owners knew him quite well, so they were friendly as always even as they gave Dan Feng a few odd looks.
Dan Feng only had eyes for the printed out draft now in his hands.
“After that, ah, experience at the hotel, I’ve decided that perhaps I’m not cut out for romance,” Sunday explains, fidgeting with his hands as he tries to maintain a proper posture. “I…hope you like it.”
And so he waits. He waits as Dan Feng reads through his draft. There was only the most miniscule of shifts in Dan Feng’s expression throughout. Sunday couldn’t read him at all…
Until Dan Feng got to the end, and his expression did change.
Oh.
“This is pristine,” Dan Feng says, gaze aflame and avid. “You didn’t disappoint at all, Sunday Oak.”
Sunday, who has never heard such words before, nearly keels over.
“D-Do you really mean it, sir?”
“Oh yes,” Dan Feng says easily. “Such a unique premise. The main character works at a church and helps set up a stranger’s funeral, finding themselves captivated and curious about the widow they cannot make any sense of. The way they connect and how they quietly reflect on previous experiences, both observed and personal… The ending where they offer prayers together is quite evocative.”
Dan Feng’s voice rises with fervor.
“This is exactly what I was looking for, even if I did not know the shape it would take. You’ve done very well. This is far more fulfilling than any romance.”
“I-I…” Sunday swallows, wringing his hands under the table. “I would not go that far… But I did find myself…selfishly wishing to please you.”
“And what a pleasure it is.” This is how Sunday sees Dan Feng smile for the first time. Right before he delicately plucks up his cup to sip from. “I greatly appreciate it, Sunday.”
Oh.
And Sunday thought,
This person could drag me to hell if he wanted. And I would let him.
“Congratulations to Sunday to first place!”
“Cheers!”
They all clinked their glasses together, as embarrassing as it was. March and Stelle both gave whoops, Dan Heng sipped at his drink idly, and Ms. Himeko and Mr. Yang were nothing short of kind and supportive, making it clear that everything was on the house. Sunday, meanwhile, tried not to choke on a strawberry.
“I can’t believe you never told us you were a writer!” March exclaims. “And you’re famous, too?!”
“Just winning first place in a contest doesn’t make me famous,” Sunday protests. “But, ah, since I might…not be able to work with Dan Heng as much… I thought it fair to give the reason why.”
No, he wasn’t expecting any of this at all!
“It was a very good work,” Dan Heng murmurs. Sunday tries not to shiver. “It looks like I have much catching up to do.”
“Aww, Dan Heng I still like your, uh, pastries,” March reassures.
“Pastorals,” Dan Heng corrects.
“His pastries are good, too,” Stelle adds.
“Honing your craft is an endless journey,” Himeko says. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t important steps along the way.”
“A-Aha…” Sunday sips nervously at his drink. Mr. Yang squeezes his shoulder, and he doesn’t know what to do about that but it does make him happy.
“To think Sunday would get a super mysterious agent,” March muses, and Sunday manages to not flinch. “Are they at least treating you right?”
“Yes.” Sunday can’t hesitate here. “He said I’m free to continue publishing short stories… But I do want to write novels again.”
“Best of luck,” Dan Heng says. “Let me know if your agent ever gives you a hard time.”
I can never do that.
“You should do whatever you think is best,” Mr. Yang says. “Whatever goal you wish to achieve.”
His goal, which was now taking the shape of seeing that small smile again, on those thin lips pressed to the delicate rim of a cup. They were all very kind and encouraging, but Sunday wished to keep them from those depths, where a darkness lurked.
“I appreciate it,” Sunday says earnestly. “Really.”
Falling from the skies, finally rising from the ashes… Yet I would fall all over again for Dan Feng.