Archive of Our Own

Seeing blood makes Liguang’s head spin a little. He should be used to it by now but, in all truth, this isn’t something you can truly get accustomed to. Even now, a few hints of red tainting freshly-changed bandages send him back to the realm of dreams, where death walks hand in hand with fate.

“Ugh, it really hurts like hell,” complains Murakumo, his body still like a corpse save for his chest, heaving, up and down in slow motion, and his eyes running across the room as if trying to find an escape.

His tone isn’t one Liguang often hears from him. It sounds like the growl of an injured animal, lower than usual, with no artifice whatsoever. Most likely his true voice, as Liguang guesses, once you strip him of all the safeguards he’s placed around himself. He doesn’t bother acting and Liguang can’t say he enjoys this sudden frankness of his, at least not in these circumstances.

“You’re healing quickly. In a day or two, you should be back in good shape.”

Murakumo rolls his eyes. “A lot of good that does me.”

Liguang doesn’t reply. He’s yet to experience this amount of physical suffering in this life, but he does remember. The feeling of killing, and the feeling of being killed—most people would be driven crazy by the visions plaguing his nights and, at times, Liguang wonders if he hasn’t lost a part of his sanity there, amidst the memories resurfacing when he sleeps. This is how he knows that, sometimes, the pain is simply too much. Sometimes it drowns even your sense of self, and you wait for death with open arms because there’s no point in living when you no longer know what you’re breathing for.

This is why he knows this, too: Murakumo, who seems to act as though his own death would be no big deal, simply the logical conclusion to an existence that doesn’t hold much value in and of itself, cares a lot more about his life than he lets on.

As someone who believes each life lost is a star plucked out of the sky, Liguang can only agree with this line of thought.

“What did you tell Renga-san and the others?”

“That I invited you home for a few days.”

“Oh. Not exactly a lie, then.” A phantom smile on Murakumo’s lips, in a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. “And you’re okay with the misunderstanding?”

He isn’t. Still: “I couldn’t exactly tell them the truth.”

“Renga-san will be jealous.”

“He knows there’s something going on between the two of us. Let him draw his own consequences.”

It is best if Renga—the fake one, the one who wasn’t supposed to be more than a fleeting connection, never meant to last for longer than a lifetime—never gets involved in their business. Liguang has dragged enough people already: Sojun, who was but a child when Liguang chose to make him his shadow, strong enough to survive until the end of the world if he must, and Murakumo, who was shaped into a tool as soon as he took his first breath, all choices torn from him before he could even talk—the two skilled, trustworthy, or at least reliable enough for Liguang to count on them when it matters.

Murakumo watches him with keen attention. Through the pain, he seems to be a little amused by the situation. “You’re amazing, Liguang-san. You’d rather have people believe you feel for me than expose me.”

Liguang looks again at the bandages covering Murakumo’s body, numerous, turning red as the wounds reopen with each movement, forcing him to stay motionless even though he wants to leave. “I’ll call the doctor.”

“Don’t bother. It’s even more painful when he touches me.” Murakumo straightens up, in an attempt to look better than he is, although he doesn’t bother to hide his wince as he does so. “I’ll call him myself later. I’d rather have a talk with you, Liguang-san.”

Liguang glances at his face. The other man’s in pain, and it might not be Liguang’s fault at all, but it twists something inside his guts. A protective instinct, so to speak, regardless of how ridiculous this notion should be. Murakumo Ten isn’t a man you need to protect from anything; at best, he might use you as a shield, and he might offer you his thanks for playing your part. Still, he is no Sojun; his gratitude is bound by money, and a word from the higher-ups may render him useless.

All he should want, right now, is an additional dose of painkiller, followed by a good nap. If he wants to talk, then he has something in mind.

Liguang nods anyway. “What do you want to talk about?”

“This place.” Murakumo starts to raise his arm to wave at the room but stops himself right away, his face twisting once again. “You know I’m going to talk about it to Ninokuruwa, right?”

Liguang clenches his fists. Here it comes. “Then do it. I couldn’t leave you to bleed out on the street.”

“You could’ve asked the house where I could get treated instead of revealing one of your family’s secrets.”

They’re in a small room, windowless, with only a single bed and a couple of chairs, a beeper placed on a small bedside table—and, in a corner outside of Liguang’s field of vision, Murakumo’s bloody belongings. Murakumo might or might not remember the drive that brought him to that small house somewhere in Chinatown, a nondescript dwelling where the Lurong may rest from their injuries and be treated by a competent (and discreet) underground doctor if they can’t go to the hospital. Liguang assumes he does.

“Consider this your bargaining chip against Ninokuruwa, then. I doubt that they’re happy that their best element is out of commission for a few days.”

This sounds like an excuse, perhaps. Murakumo doesn’t seem entirely convinced; his expression turns sour, and suddenly he’s on his guard again, closed to Liguang as though the other hasn’t just saved his life. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“It doesn’t.” But what if I don’t like the way you’re treated like a tool? “But you’re welcome, Murakumo.”

Besides, Liguang doesn’t think the cost, although heavy to pay, is too high. What’s a safe house, really, if not something that can be rebuilt again and again? Once a life comes to an end, you can’t get it back. Liguang knows all too well: he mourns those whose names he has forgotten, even though they each took a part of his heart with them as they headed for the afterlife. And he doesn’t even have to care for Murakumo: he would’ve done the same for a stranger. So this small exchange doesn’t have to bear more meaning than they both want to give.

With a sigh, Murakumo leans down against the pillow. “Now I owe you even more.”

“Good for you.”

“I bet you do. You get a top-notch Ninokuruwa agent to work for you for free.”

“If that’s what you want to believe.” Liguang didn’t fail to notice that Murakumo always makes sure he won’t be in his debt. He’s always asking for help in a lopsided way, if possible while trying to make Liguang owe him in the process. Somehow, that makes him easier to deal with, a little more predictable than he should be.

The wounded man doesn’t seem to be in the mood for his usual bantering remarks, though. “Well. You did save me, after all. Thank you, Liguang-san.”

He stares at Liguang, studying his expression as if he could find another asset to use against him—unless he has something else in mind, something Liguang has only a faint idea of. And now isn’t the time to explore this possibility, so Liguang looks down at his phone instead.

It’s already later than he thought. “I should go now.” No matter his desires, Liguang can’t resist the call of duty. He has a meeting in less than an hour—not that he’ll tell Murakumo. It’s time to put some distance between the two of them; to leave Murakumo alone again while Liguang lives his own life, unaffected by the other’s injuries.

“Bye, then.” Murakumo doesn’t seem very sad to see him leave. “Next time, bring me a plant, okay?”

Liguang thinks of the aglaonema Murakumo keeps by his bed. “You don’t like the decoration of this room?”

He knows Murakumo doesn’t care about it— but there’s a glimpse of discomfort on his face, as though he is trying his best to make do with the situation, and yet. “Isn’t it good manners to bring a small gift to those recovering?”

For some reason, that makes Liguang smile. “I’ll have Sojun bring you one.”

If Murakumo’s face seems disappointed when he leaves, it must be a hallucination. Or perhaps it is simply projection. Day by day, it becomes harder for Liguang to pretend that none of it is personal, and he only sees Murakumo as a convenient spy or a life that deserves to be saved. There is something else, but he’d rather not dwell on it right now, not when he can’t even look at his own hands, for he knows he will still see the blood he’d rubbed off his skin only a few hours ago.

◊

Months earlier, Sojun puts his finger on something that Liguang would have preferred to ignore.

The spark lights up in the middle of the night, one of these ordinary nights Liguang can’t fully talk about to the other members of HAMA Tours. Once the sun sets, Liguang walks into another world where he’s no longer the mayor of the 4th ward—he’s the Lurong elder son through and through, never cruel unless he needs to be.

There’s only one person who saw glimpses of the man he becomes once he steps into the shadows—and that person is now sitting in the back seat of Liguang’s car, right next to Liguang himself, another secret best kept unrevealed.

Murakumo is supposed to have gone on a bar crawl with some uni friend or some woman; whichever it is, Liguang doesn’t remember, and it doesn’t matter. Instead, he’s staring at Liguang with a smug expression. His sleeve is torn, exposing a brand new gash on his arm; he tried to hide it from Liguang when he got into the car but Liguang saw it anyway, his eyes drawn to this unusual dot of colour.

Liguang quickly checks the data Murakumo has sent him. “That seems to be what Xingbing was looking for. Good job, Murakumo. Sojun, send him the rest of the payment as promised.”

He feels Murakumo leaning against him, his shoulder bumping against Liguang’s. The added proximity doesn’t really bother him; Murakumo should know as much, by now, so Liguang doesn’t see why he still tries to rile him up with physical contact. “Come on, Liguang-san, you could be a little more expressive. I did more than a good job, didn’t I?”

“What’s that supposed to mean, more than a good job?”

“A perfect job, of course. One worth every yen you’re spending on me.”

“You’re expensive, Murakumo. If anything, you’re the one who should be grateful I’m willing to spend as much on you.”

“Am I not your favourite Ninokuruwa pawn?”

“Only because you wanted to be.”

“Boss,” Sojun cuts them off, the slightest hint of annoyance detectible in his voice, “I sent the money.”

Murakumo withdraws in an instant to check his terminal. Liguang casts a quick glance at Sojun, but his right-hand man seems to look straight ahead, unwilling to get involved in their conversation anymore. Liguang can’t blame him for that. Murakumo can be a hassle when he feels comfortable enough to be; it goes with their partnership, Liguang guesses. And, to tell the truth, Liguang no longer minds it. Murakumo doesn’t feel as irritating once you realise this is his way of feeling in control of the situation. In a way, he’s much more bearable than Kiba was as a child.

Liguang looks back at Murakumo at the same time the other man raises his eyes at him. “I got my payment. It’s always a pleasure working for you, Liguang-san. Thank you very much for your patronage.”

Liguang sighs. “You don’t have to act so subservient, Murakumo. I’ll give you a bonus next time, since you do your job perfectly.”

Murakumo’s face brightens for a second. It doesn’t last long, just like a bolt of lightning tearing the darkness of the night out in a flash before it disappears altogether. But Liguang knows he hasn’t imagined it. He’s catching more and more of Murakumo’s micro-expressions, those betraying what he truly feels before he regains control of his face.

“See you later in the dorms, Liguang-san,” he says, opening the car door and fading away into the night, a spot of black against black.

Liguang watches him until he can no longer see him. Somehow, his absence troubles him more than any of Murakumo’s whims. “Let’s head back, Sojun.”

Sojun turns the car on and starts driving without uttering a word. In this silence, Liguang realises his exhaustion is catching up with him; his whole body feels heavy and he represses a sigh behind his hand. He can’t afford to go to bed yet; he has to deliver the data to Xingbing first, and then he probably has some files that require his attention waiting for him on his desk. He should check them too before he can allow himself a good night of sleep.

Minutes have passed when Sojun finally breaks the silence: “He’s changed.”

Liguang understands he’s talking about Murakumo. “How so?”

“He seems attached to you.”

“Attached?” Sojun’s remark is… unexpected, to say the least. Liguang expected him to say that Murakumo got bolder, or something along similar lines; it is quite a risky statement, to claim to understand Murakumo’s feelings, and Liguang knows better than to do so.

“He seemed happy when you told him you’d give him a bonus,” Sojun elaborates.

“Of course he was. He was asking for it.”

Sojun hesitates a little before he adds: “I don’t think it was only a matter of money.”

For a second, Liguang is too taken aback to say anything.

He’d like for his relationship with Murakumo to remain as professional as possible. He does, at times, overstep these limits as the one person in HAMA Tours who knows the highest amount of Murakumo’s secrets; who else can hold out a hand to him, if not Liguang? Liguang simply can’t avert his eyes. It would go against his principles: he will always, always side with the weaker, and it became obvious to him that Murakumo is an idol with feet of clay the first time he saw him injured. When you have nothing but darkness in front of you, you can’t afford to let go of your weapons. Murakumo doesn’t have many; he may know how to fire a gun or how to fight with his bare hands, but these skills are useless when the thing you want to protect is your own heart.

Liguang may not find many things he likes about him, but his own feelings are irrelevant. He will offer his assistance if Murakumo asks for him. It is simply the right thing to do.

“He must be worried that I’ll withdraw my support if I’m not satisfied with his work.” This is the one reason he can think of; the voice of logic, the only one he should listen to. And yet…

Liguang looks through the window. The lights, outside, blur into each other as the car speeds up into the night. This part of the city isn’t as floodlit as the rest; once the sun sets, it becomes hard to make out the outlines of the buildings and to find your way through the streets you haven’t explored yet. Sometimes, Liguang feels like he’s always lived in this almost obscurity his whole life, navigating as best as he can through his missing memories.

“Boss. Forgive me for what I’m about to say, but you shouldn’t let yourself be dragged into his whims.” Sojun’s voice is now low, barely above a whisper. Liguang knows he’s right because this is how Murakumo works: all whims, and no long-term desire whatsoever. “As long as you’re here for him when it matters, it’s fine if you keep your distance. But if you want to be close to him, then you should know that he’s probably fond of you.”

Liguang nods, mostly to acknowledge Sojun’s words. He’s known it all along: you can be an ally without being a friend.

Nowadays, though, he can tell this isn’t what he’s been doing. Murakumo has slowly but surely started to bridge the gap between the two of them; and Liguang, undoubtedly, lets him do so, for a reason he can’t fathom.

◊

As the year nears its end, Liguang thinks it might be time for him to take Sojun’s words into account and decide once and for all what he desires.

A hand lingering where it shouldn’t, eyes locked onto each other when they’re on opposite sides of the room, words carrying a second meaning—one never lost on Liguang, even when he feels he’s reading too much into Murakumo’s behaviour; time passes, and Murakumo makes his whims clearer. Seemingly, he remains within easy reach, but Liguang makes no mistake about it. It could very well be a trap: lure Liguang into a false sense of proximity, and you’d bind him to you more effectively than any contract would. So long as the benefits exceed the inconvenience, Murakumo would not mind playing around.

Liguang is up for the challenge. He wonders if Murakumo suspects anything when Liguang arranges for another discreet meeting, away from prying ears. It’s hard to see through his expression when he doesn’t want you to read him; his smile means business, and business alone.

But it does melt into something else—amusement, for sure, and perhaps another emotion, the one that only surfaces when Liguang meets him halfway—when Liguang tells him that he doesn’t have a job to give him.

“Oh? Then what exactly could you want from me, Liguang-san? Now I’m all ears.”

Smugness is a terrible look on Murakumo’s face, but Liguang doesn’t find it as annoying as he should. Instead, he takes a small packet out of his pocket and hands it to Murakumo.

“Here. A year-end present from the Lurong.” It is tradition, after all, and since he’s giving one to Momiji as thanks for her support, he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t also offer one to the HAMA Tours member who helps him with his non-tourism business. “It is not a personal present from you to me.”

Murakumo takes it, his expression shifting once again; this time more guarded, his eyes going from Liguang to the gift, then Liguang, then the gift again. “You’re so impressive, Liguang-san. How did you know that’s what I was going to say?”

Liguang doesn’t bother to reply; they both know the answer to this question. “I know you won’t attend the celebration we’re hosting for our associates.” Too many eyes on him, not enough discretion; if attendance isn’t mandatory, then Murakumo has no reason to expose himself as a partner of the family. “But everyone receives a present from us. It wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t get one, too.”

At long last, Murakumo’s gaze stops on Liguang. His eyes have never felt so dark, as though they’re the door to an abyss rather than the mirror of one’s soul. “Well then, thank you so much, Liguang-san. It makes me so happy to know that you value our partnership.”

Liguang’s chest tightens. “You don’t have to open it right now. Just make sure the others don’t see it when you do.”

“Don’t want them to realise you have a favourite?”

For some reason, Liguang can’t make himself say you’re not.

And he thinks about Sojun’s words again. He doesn’t have to be close to Murakumo, unless he wants to. If that is what he desires, then, he should brace himself for what’s to come. Closeness, regardless of the shape it takes, friendship or love or any other word he may find fit to describe his feelings for the other, may only come with a high price. One that cannot be worse than the cost of his loved ones’ lives, but still.

He might know who the real Murakumo is, yet still fall for an illusion.

“Don’t look at me with that scary face, Liguang-san. Listen, I’m in a good mood, so I’ll tell you something. In fact, I got you a gift too.”

Out of all the ways Liguang thought this conversation would go, Murakumo’s revelation wasn’t an option at all. “What?”

“I got you a gift. I knew you’d get me one, and well. Ninokuruwa doesn’t care for Christmas, but I can still express my thanks to my most loyal client if I want, right?”

There’s something teasing in Murakumo’s voice, yet Liguang can’t help but feel he’s a little sincere here. If Liguang refuses to make his present a personal one, he can’t blame Murakumo if he does the same. These are the rules of the game they’re playing: you cannot expect the other to cross a boundary you just set.

Nonetheless, Liguang can’t deny that his heart clenched at the thought of Murakumo offering him something. This must be the reply to Sojun’s question, all in all.

“It seems we both had the same idea,” he says, his smile as sincere as it can be in front of Murakumo. We both try to test the waters and we run into a brick wall.

“Right?” It might be an optical illusion, a trick of the light as it brushes Murakumo’s face, but he seems happy—not in his usual, smugly way; when he’s genuinely happy, Murakumo has the innocence of a child, simply content with what he holds in his hands. “Ah, I have an idea, Liguang-san. How about we both open our presents at the same time?”

“I don’t mind.”

“Then give me five minutes to fetch your gift.”

Liguang nods and watches Murakumo leave, his own present still in hand. He’s seen him disappear before his eyes so many times before, as nimble as the wind slipping through the cracks of an old wall. This time, though, is different: he trusts that Murakumo will come back.

This is how their relationship should happen, Liguang thinks. Murakumo doesn’t like being attached to someone and Liguang doesn’t want to open this part of his heart that has been locked in a previous life. The distance isn’t entirely erased, rather it shrank down to a small nothing.

The perfect distance to see each other eye to eye, if you will.

◊

Liguang doesn’t exactly remember when the distance between Murakumo and him becomes null. The memory of that evening exists as a standalone, unconnected to all the others; a moment of vivid brightness, akin to a lighthouse in the dead of the night. He finds it hard to avert his eyes from this memory—or, in other words, not to dwell on it. And it’s fine if he can’t, because some memories are meant to stay with you until your very last breath and he sure won’t mind if that one does.

That night is a dark night in the literal sense, thanks to a blackout plunging half the city into darkness. Murakumo’s phone lights up his face as he checks his messages. Liguang doesn’t miss the way he winces when he reads one of them then carefully plasters his signature smile on his face—an expression that means trouble.

“She just cancelled,” he says in a falsely lighthearted voice. “Said she doesn’t want to go out when she can’t even see where she puts her feet.”

“That sounds like an excuse not to see you.”

“You think so?” Murakumo raises his eyes, staring at Liguang with a pointed look. “I would’ve been nice to her, you know.”

Liguang chooses not to reply. He doesn’t doubt that Murakumo can be a gentleman when it benefits him; he’s not sure the same can be said about these casual hook-ups Murakumo seems to be so fond of when he has a free night. It is none of Liguang’s business, anyway, so he’d rather let go of his conversation for now.

“Liguang-san.” Murakumo’s voice is honeyed, a clear sign that he’s plotting something. “Do you know of a good place to have a drink in the other parts of HAMA?”

“I do.”

“Good. Then Sojun-san can bring us there.” 

Liguang begins to see where this is going. “Us?”

“Of course, us. You and I,” Murakumo says, as though Liguang just asked a stupid question. “You’re coming with me, Liguang-san.”

“No. I still have work to do.” This isn’t even a lie. Liguang does have a couple of tasks to do, although none are due urgently.

Murakumo seems to see right through him. “And I’m sure it can wait till tomorrow. Now, come on. I promise you’ll spend a wonderful night.”

Liguang decides to change his approach. “Why would you want to spend your night with me, anyway?”

Liguang can think of a couple of reasons. Some that are rather easy to guess—Murakumo is free, he has no one else to go out with, he loves to play with Liguang’s buttons—and some that aren’t. Now, here lies the problem: they’ve found the right balance between their professional life and their tacit wish to be a little more friendly to each other than necessary, and Liguang has no desire to endanger it. They have no excuse, this time. No reason to be in the same place at the same time, let alone to be together.

Besides, the mischievous glint in Murakumo’s eyes at this very moment would be reason enough to refuse his invitation.

“Didn’t you say that it’s better if I play around with guys rather than with women? You’re a man, Liguang-san, so I assume you offered yourself when you said that.”

This isn’t what Liguang said. Not exactly what he said, at least; simply something along the lines of. “Murakumo. Do you realise what you’re asking of me?”

Murakumo’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second—a slight moment of hesitation, but it’s telling. “I do. What about you, Liguang-san? Do you not want to know how well I can treat a woman when I want to?”

Liguang doesn’t.

Close to an hour later, Sojun drives them to the other side of the city, the one not affected by the blackout, and drops them off in front of a bar that belongs to the Lurong. Liguang feels the weight of his stare even when he restarts the car and drives off into the night.

An uncomfortable silence binds the two of them as Liguang guides them inside, greeting the staff with a few words before he beckons Murakumo to take a seat. Murakumo complies, his eyes not leaving Liguang once—and his face lighting up when Liguang says all drinks are on him to the barman.

“You know how to treat a date, Liguang-san,” Murakumo says.

“This is only the bare minimum.” Liguang chooses not to discuss his choice of words. At this point, they’ve long agreed that their relationship would veer away from what it should be, no longer strictly professional but something that has yet to be defined. This, however, is entirely uncharted territory. “What do you want?”

“Whatever the owner recommends.”

“Anything but wine, then.”

Liguang beckons to the barman, who gives Murakumo a glass of beer and Shaoxing wine for Liguang—because it’s his privilege, as a member of the family who owns the business, to have his tastes known by heart by the staff of the bar.

Murakumo downs his glass as if it were water. It may not be the first time Liguang watches him chugging alcohol without a care and he knows that no matter how much he drinks, so long as it’s not wine Murakumo’s head will stay clear. Liguang himself takes his time to savour his wine, enjoying the malty flavour that fills his mouth.

“How about we play some game, Liguang-san?”

“What kind of game?”

“Truth of dare.”

Liguang frowns. “Is this what you’re doing with the women you take out?”

“Sometimes, yes.” Murakumo signals to the barman, who refills his drink after exchanging a glance with Liguang. “I usually go along with whatever they want to do. Some like to play this game to break the ice.”

“I bet you don’t say the truth often.”

Murakumo chuckles. His face, a mask of full-on innocence, makes him look younger than the 21-year-old man he’s supposed to be. He leans over to whisper in Liguang’s ears: “I don’t, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

Liguang feels a shiver running down his spine. “Then you don’t mind if I let you start, right?”

Murakumo retreats, still smiling. “Sure. But I won’t pick truth right away. You’ll have to give me a dare first, Liguang-san.”

Liguang looks around. There are, in fact, many things he could ask of Murakumo at this moment, but just as Murakumo refuses to let the truth out so early in the game, Liguang would prefer to start slow. His eyes fall on the dartboard. “Let me witness your skills first. You can throw a dart at the centre of the target, can you?”

Murakumo turns his head in the direction of the board. “Don’t underestimate me, Liguang-san. I can reach the bullseye from this very seat.”

Liguang estimates that there are probably more than three metres between the dartboard and Murakumo—and, more significantly, a few occupied tables in-between, with people who could get hurt if Murakumo messes up. It would be best to tell him not to.

And yet, Liguang gets up to pick a dart up, then hands it to Murakumo with a straight face:

“Let’s see what you can do.”

Murakumo is beaming when he takes the dart, childlike again.

He throws it in a swift motion, so fast that Liguang barely sees more than a flash of colour before his eyes—and then, as promised, the dart hits the bullseye.

A few stares turn to them, but no one bothers to open their mouth.

“You can give me harder dares, next,” Murakumo says. “Your turn, now, Liguang-san.”

Liguang hesitates for a second. “Truth.”

“Oh.” Murakumo’s smile widens. “Let’s give you an easy one, too. What’s your favourite colour?”

Liguang stares at Murakumo in disbelief. “What?”

“Ah, that’s the kind of questions I ask the women I usually play with. Nothing that could make them uncomfortable. See, I’m a true gentleman.”

Murakumo is anything but, yet Liguang only sighs. “Fine. It’s gold. Truth or dare?”

“Dare, again.”

The game goes on for a while. Murakumo keeps on drinking and picking dare—he said he wouldn’t lie to Liguang and in a way, he said the truth. Nonetheless, Liguang starts to feel himself relax, as though the burden he always carries with him—the heaviness of his duty as the Lu eldest son, the fear of having everything snatched away from him if he lets his guard down—eased by the casualness of the conversation. True to his promise of showing how great a date he can be, Murakumo never asks him anything too personal. His favourite animal, book, song or place in HAMA—all sorts of things you can easily share with a stranger, and Liguang has an easy time replying to all.

Liguang never considered the possibility of Murakumo being truly charming and thoughtful—at least, not to him. But he is a professional, after all; he can take on any role he wants, can mold himself into the person you want him to be, a mass of your desires in the guise of a body. It doesn’t matter if there’s pretty much nothing of himself left: he promised Liguang a good time, so he’s true to his word.

Still, Liguang finds it frustrating. This isn’t exactly what he wants, this illusion of Murakumo that shines so brightly you can no longer see his true self behind the light. Suddenly, Liguang doesn’t feel like playing by the rules anymore. “Your turn, Murakumo. But you have to choose truth this time or I’ll make you pay for all your drinks.”

Murakumo makes a face. “Playing dirty here, Liguang-san.”

“You said you wouldn’t lie.” And, come to think of it, this might be why Liguang agreed to the game in the first place. Because of this small possibility, offered as a mere way to spice things up between the two of them. And because Murakumo said so, there’s been a tension in the air the whole evening, something that kept Liguang on the edge of his seat.

After all, this can’t be a proper date if one of them keeps his distance the whole time.

“Fine.” Murakumo sighs. “Then ask me a question.”

Liguang keeps quiet for a few seconds. The barman, as though feeling that their presence could hinder whatever is going on between the two of them, moves away without a word.

Out of all the questions Liguang can think of, there is one that’s been on his mind since the beginning of the evening, the only one that could possibly touch upon the real reason behind this outing. “How long have you been thinking about inviting me out?”

He sees the way Murakumo tenses, like a deer caught in headlights.

There he is, Liguang thinks. The man who lies underneath all the deceits. This is the glimpse of the real Murakumo Ten he wanted to see.

This Murakumo doesn’t even bother to hide his annoyance. His eyes, clouded with distant anger, pierce through Liguang as though they were blades. “Now, now, Liguang-san. Careful with what you ask.”

Liguang holds his gaze without wavering. “Answer my question, Murakumo.”

Murakumo raises his glass to his lips and takes all his time sipping his drink. Stalling as much as he can, although he’s aware that he doesn’t have a lot of options.

“Alright. It’s been a few months.” He speaks as if the words were torn from his throat. “You can tell this is no lie, right?”

Liguang nods. Ultimately, he’s had his own suspicion all along. “You should be more honest about what you want, Murakumo. I would’ve said yes, had you asked.”

Murakumo stares at him, as if trying to determine whether Liguang isn’t the one who’s lying. They both know he isn’t, too, and everything that they’ve told these past minutes has been nothing but the naked truth—Murakumo’s least favourite meal.

“Say, Liguang-san. Can you pick dare next? I can’t force you to, but I promise you will like what I have in mind if you do as I say.”

Liguang feels himself smiling, despite himself. This is so typical of Murakumo, to try and upturn the situation to his advantage, and to never, ever make his own desires plain unless he confirms the other wants the same thing first.

“Then I’ll go with dare.”

◊

As it turns out, Liguang’s true feelings were rather easy to draw out of him. A single gaze, really, but a significant one, and all of his barriers come undone.

The worst thing is that, the first time, Murakumo doesn’t even have to do a single thing for Liguang to come by the actual truth of his desires. The blood staining Liguang’s hands even after he’s washed them clean, remaining nonetheless as an afterimage engraved onto his eyes, does all the work for him. The waning warmth of Murakumo’s fingers clutching his wrists marks the end of a time. In this new era of his life, Liguang can no longer pretend he doesn’t care.

Liguang keeps watching his hands, trembling, still tainted by imaginary red. He doesn’t dare to raise his head and cast a glance towards the bed. He may be physically here but his mind remains in the past, trapped in the moment when Murakumo appeared in front of him, covered in blood from head to toes, his eyes darker than the dead of the night.

“Are you sure it was a good idea to bring him here?” Sojun asks behind his back. “He could reveal the location to Ninokuruwa.”

This safe house is no longer safe, Liguang knows it. Later on, Liguang will say he made a calculated risk, but this will be one of those necessary lies meant to keep their relationship going. The truth is that Liguang didn’t think about the consequences at all. His mind was blank, his heart emptied from all other feelings than I must save him.

Numerous lives have slipped through his fingers already. Liguang has bid farewell too many times to add another one to the count. If he loses Murakumo in this life, then he’ll never find him again.

He simply realised that the thought is unbearable. His father, his mother, Xingbing, Linxing—and now Murakumo. The list goes on, despite his best efforts to keep it as short as possible.

“What’s done is done,” Liguang says. “He’s one of our associates, anyway. He has no interest in betraying us.”

Besides, the part of Liguang that has kept a careful eye on Murakumo for the past few months—not out of necessity but of sheer curiosity—believes that Murakumo wouldn’t do anything that could endanger his favourite client’s business. Because he receives an improper amount of money when Liguang employs him—and, perhaps, because of another reason that Liguang doesn’t want to think of. It’s already enough if he feels that his own heart is bleeding; he won’t deepen his wound by indulging in some delusion about Murakumo caring for him in his own Ninokuruwa way.

“Boss,” Sojun says, and Liguang realises that they’ve been silent for a couple of minutes already, “don’t blame yourself for what happened. You saved his life.”

What goes unsaid after these words: it was worth any price to you, wasn’t it?

And, yes, Liguang thinks, he’d do it again if it means that someone doesn’t die.

“I’ll stay a little longer.” Liguang sits on the closest chair. His whole body feels so heavy, right now, as if his blood had turned into lead. “You can go if you want. Get some rest, Sojun.”

A beat of silence. Then: “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“More than him, at least.” In truth, he doesn’t know.

He hears Sojun walk out of the room and gently close the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone. Liguang lets out the sigh he’s kept inside his chest the whole time, and looks at the man lying on the bed. This man that he’s always tried to keep at bay, not so much to protect himself as to protect his feelings, is now so close that Liguang could touch him if he extended his hand—yet so far away at the same time.

“You’re really nothing but trouble,” he says, as if the other could hear.

Somehow, saying it aloud makes him feel a little better.

Murakumo’s breath, even now that his life is no longer in danger, is the only sound that can be heard in the room. Liguang puts his red hands on his lap. In a few hours, Murakumo will come back from the dead, and Liguang would like to witness that moment, like one witnesses the dawn tinting the skies with its pink veils. He doesn’t ask for much: he only wishes to see him properly alive again.

◊

So the second time, Liguang chooses to be in love after he’s been dared to.

It shouldn’t make much difference but it does, in a way. There is no urgency in this situation. He is not held at gunpoint, and he’s not captive of a spell woven by Murakumo to entrance him. He’s only being given an opportunity to close the distance and he decides to take it. That’s all there is to it.

“In public?” he asks, because he’s still careful about these kinds of things, more so when Murakumo is always wary of how he is perceived. To be seen is to be put into danger, when you work for Ninokuruwa. No one is looking at them and the barman seems content to discuss with another patron for the time being. Still, Liguang wonders if that wouldn’t make him the target, and Murakumo the dart heading for his centre—and a movement always catches the eye, especially when unexpected.

“I don’t mind. Do you?”

Liguang may be old-fashioned, but not enough to mind.

So he closes the distance between the two of them, unbothered by the dozens of eyes that could turn their way any time. The whole earth could be watching, actually, and he’d still get close to Murakumo, leaving only a small thread of air between the two of them. He only cares about the other man’s eyes, with this hue of purple that sometimes looks grey from a distance, and Liguang finds that he doesn’t want to look away.

He feels Murakumo’s arms behind his back and he puts his own around his waist—and feels him flinch when Liguang’s hand brushes against a familiar spot over his ribs, one that means history to them.

“Sensitive place?” he whispers, and he enjoys the spark of cold anger that shines through Murakumo’s gaze as he speaks.

“You broke that rib, remember, Liguang-san?”

As if I could forget—it had to be done, at the time. Liguang didn’t think that Murakumo’s body would remember, though. Somehow, that makes him feel a little happy. “Good. You shouldn’t forgive me for that.”

Does this reminder of the past stop them from doing something they might regret once the sun rises again? Obviously not.

Liguang can’t tell who initiates it. For all he knows, they might have moved at the same time, and the kiss simply happens as a fortunate consequence of their movement rather than something they both wanted. He knows better, but still. Murakumo keeps his eagerness under control, but Liguang can tell anyway. He presses against Liguang’s lips with a little too much insistence, not enough nonchalance. When he chooses to deepen the kiss, opening his mouth, the first thing that Liguang notices is alcohol. That man really drinks a lot, he thinks, although it is a distant thought, one that remains at the limits of his mind even when he loses his hold on all the others.

Liguang has kissed and been kissed before. There’s one dream, in particular, one his child self has never mentioned to Kiba because it didn’t result in any death and he didn’t want his friend to make fun of him. Ever through the haziness of the dream, Liguang could tell he’d never been embraced by anyone that way—the tenderness of the moment unravelling all the previous memories of being loved. Too bad he can’t remember who he was holding; now it remains as a scar, a dull ghost of pain throbbing in his chest when he remembers.

Murakumo’s hand finds its way to Liguang’s hair, tugging not so much, just enough for him to feel the difference between dream and reality. Liguang finds that he doesn’t dislike it, just like he doesn’t dislike the twitching of his body when Liguang presses against his ribs. It fits them much better. It may not be as tender as the dream, but it’s much more intoxicating—after all, this moment is real.

Murakumo manages to make Liguang forget about anything but him, for a few seconds, and this is all Liguang could ask for.

The kiss seems to break on its own, or perhaps they both felt it was the right moment to stop the dare. Liguang isn’t sure it truly counts as one. For the sake of the game, surely; as for them, well—

Some questions don’t need to be answered, after all.

Murakumo looks rather unaffected by what just happened, save for a small tint of red under his eyes. Even now, he won’t allow Liguang to see more than what he wants him to.

“That was an easy dare,” he says, just to tease Murakumo, and the other laughs a little—a warm, delicate kind of laugh.

“Yes,” Murakumo replies, his eyes catching the light as the moon does in the night. “I told you you’d like it.”

That, too, wasn’t a lie.

◊

A year or two later (who knows, really, when time seems to flow like a river that nothing can stop), a highway bordered by two luminescent metal barriers displaying, at times, traffic information or advertisements for the latest flying car models, stretches out before their eyes.

Murakumo, behind the wheel, lets out a sigh. “By the way, Liguang-san. You do have a driving license, am I right?”

Liguang chooses not to answer. “We have a deal. I cover all the expenses, you drive.”

“Yes, yes. I was just asking. I’m happy being your chauffeur for the duration of our trip.” In his defence, Murakumo took the driver’s seat without uttering a single word of complaint. Now that HAMA is behind their back, invisible to the naked eye, he allows himself to break the comfortable silence that had settled between the two since the beginning of the drive. Liguang expected him to say something, sooner or later. That’s just how Murakumo is: he has to poke, like a bee stinging not to defend itself but for the fun of it.

Surprisingly, his driving is a lot more gentle than Sojun’s. He’s in control of the car as though it is an extension of himself, lightly hitting the brakes while in town but speeding up once they’re out. It makes the ride pleasant. Just enough for Liguang to relax, even though he’s in a closed space with one of the most dangerous men in the world.

He might be trusting him too much, at this point, but he has the feeling this trust isn’t misplaced.

Murakumo himself seems as laidback as usual. His eyes veer off the highway sometimes, meet Liguang’s for a fraction of a second, and then back to the road.

“It feels like we’re eloping,” he says at last.

It’s meant to be a joke, but there’s a strain in Murakumo’s voice, barely audible; and Liguang, who has learnt to listen over the years, hears it clearly. A joke, unless it isn’t entirely one.

“Just say you’d love to elope with me, then.” Liguang doesn’t have the same taste for things half-said; not with Murakumo, at the very least, whose lies carry a burden of truth, and whose truths are tainted with lies.

Murakumo, his hands steady on the wheel, casts a glance outside, as if looking for something. “I doubt that the second in command of the Lu family would want to vanish into thin air just because he’s in love with the wrong man.”

“Who says I’m in love?” And who says that the problem would only be his situation, and not the pawn of the Ninokuruwa’s, whose life is hanging by a single thread?

Murakumo chuckles. “I have known you to be more honest.”

He’s not wrong, but the way he says it sends a shiver down Liguang’s spine. What a terrible situation he is: to be in love, indisputably so, with a man who can’t be entirely his. It doesn’t matter, if his feelings are requited; they have no need for words to understand this. Ah, Liguang thinks, he’s starting to rub off on me. He, too, doesn’t see the point of saying things they both know all too well.

As a man of the underworld, Liguang has always thought a day like this one would come. As long as this distance between them doesn’t widen again, he won’t ask for more.

“What about your feelings, then?” Since there’s no use denying it. “You’re still the one who suggested the two of us go on a trip. Together. Alone.” Without that idiot that has, for sure, grown on these two over the years; and, on Liguang’s end, without even a word of protest, despite all of Sojun’s best efforts to get him to take a break the past few months. There must be a hidden purpose behind this trip, a mission Murakumo can’t refuse in another part of the country, but Liguang won’t pry. He won’t get involved in Murakumo’s business unless the other tells him to.

For a whole minute, nothing but silence, covering the hum of the car’s engine.

Then: “Are you trying to rile me up, Liguang-san?”

“I don’t even have to try. Everything I say seems to irritate you.”

This time, it makes Murakumo burst out laughing. And there’s a dangerous glint in his eye when he speaks again: “Well, you should save this conversation for when I’m not driving. You know I’ll get angry.”

The veiled threat doesn’t unnerve Liguang. “We’ll talk later, then.”

Murakumo quickly nods, not out of agreement.

Fifty minutes later, their car is parked in front of a small hotel nestled in the mountains and their suitcases are being brought by a robot donning the appearance of a mushroom.

Liguang starts to unpack his baggage right away, but Murakumo stays by the window, his eyes lost in contemplation. The flow of time never stops but it seems to have made an exception for this part of JPN: there’s nothing but nature around them. These trees, standing tall under a clement sun, must have seen thousands of people come and go already, people who lived and died and survived in the memories of their children and then sank into oblivion. Just like Murakumo, they must have looked through the pane and searched for the river meandering at their roots and for the trails winding below the canopy.

“We’re really in the middle of nowhere,” he says.

Liguang raises his eyes. All he sees is Murakumo’s back, and he notices his hair, grown longer, covering the better part of his neck and the top of his collar.

“The view is beautiful, yes. Which bed would you like?”

“The one near the door.” The one that’ll allow him to slip away from the room if he wishes, or if Ninokuruwa asks him to, with lower risks of waking Liguang up. Well, fine by him. He plans to have a full night of sleep for the first time in months, which he knows will please Sojun.

When he’s done unpacking, Liguang sits on his bed and checks his work phone one last time before he turns it off for the next twenty-four hours. He got a few mails, but nothing that can’t be postponed.

Murakumo sits next to him, at a distance that would be a little suffocating if they were truly just work partners, his thigh and arm pressing against Liguang’s as an invitation—or, rather, as a reminder that Liguang should pay more attention to him. He’s always that way: getting closer when he wants to, retreating when it becomes too much. Liguang lets him because he doesn’t mind either way.

“What do you want, Murakumo?” he asks. And as he lets the question out, he realises that he doesn’t just mean now; he wonders about Murakumo’s true desires, the ones he knows lurk right beneath the surface and make him reach for Liguang, again and again.

Murakumo doesn’t reply. He simply leans in, as though his words weren’t necessary in this situation—and perhaps they aren’t, because Liguang finds no use for them at this moment. Murakumo is right beside him, so the rest doesn’t matter.