Archive of Our Own

BGM：THE WEEKEND - The Hills

The rehearsal studio gradually materialized out of the darkness. The enormous mirrored walls reflected half a dozen busy, weary figures. The air was thick with sweat, hairspray, and a certain taut anticipation. For the sake of the upcoming fan meeting—a grand affair—the entire team had been fighting it out here for hours.

The instantly recognizable, low, oppressive intro of The Hills began for what felt like the hundredth time, lingering like a ghost that refused to leave. The sound tech had long since lost count of how many times he’d queued it up, executing the command mechanically. Backup dancers murmured in the corner, running through complex formations, their footfalls slightly disjointed. The executive assistant’s voice cut through the gaps between the music, rising and falling: “Confirm the lights one more time,” “Make sure the costumes are ready,” “One last run, everyone, focus.”

The mirrors captured not only the organized chaos but also, repeatedly, the two central figures. Occasionally, Jiang Heng would pause, adjusting the angle of his wrist with practiced nonchalance. Li Pei’en, meanwhile, was more silent, his gaze repeatedly sweeping across his own reflection and that of his partner. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes were sharp, focused—examining every detail for perfection, or perhaps scrutinizing some harder-to-name emotion.

When the clock struck a certain threshold, the choreographer clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone else can take a break. Jiang Heng, Pei’en—let’s run your duet section one last time.”

The ambient noise—the low murmur of staff, the distant hum of traffic, the sigh of the air conditioning—seemed to be erased by an invisible hand. As the intro, now etched into their bones, thrummed through the space once more, the universe contracted to this dim rehearsal studio and the few solitary lights hanging from the ceiling.

The lights weren’t white, but a weave of deep blue and pale white, like moonlight piercing the ocean. They cast intersecting pools of light on the dark floor, carving territories out of shadow. Dust motes danced silently in the cold beams, like fragments of stars shaken loose by the music.

On this stage, sculpted by light and shadow, Jiang Heng leaned against the mirrored wall. The deep blue light traced the breadth of his shoulders, while the pale white casually illuminated the V-neck of his black silk shirt, catching the sharp lines of his collarbone and a sliver of his chest beneath the carelessly open fabric. The two black silk neckties hanging at his chest swayed silently in the glow, catching the light, moving with the faint rhythm of his breathing. He tapped his long fingers absently against his thigh, keeping time, the tip of his red-soled shoe tapping the floor in the shadows with an almost arrogant languor. His gaze, through the haze of light and dancing dust, settled heavily on the figure five steps away.

Across from him, Li Pei’en stood as still as a pine. The pale white light, falling on his immaculate white shirt, was almost blinding, while the blue side light outlined his features in cool relief. The thin gold-rimmed lenses reflected the light subtly, obscuring the full depth of his emotions; all that was visible was a focus so intense it bordered on restraint. His own loosely tied black tie created a stark visual contrast with the crisp, almost ascetic white of his shirt—an externalization of some internal pull. His long fingers tightened almost imperceptibly at his side, the knuckles whitening, before he forced them to relax.

The heavy bass beat surged like a heartbeat, slamming into every corner of the studio. In the same instant, the two of them moved as if pulled by an invisible thread, stepping off together.

They performed the same choreographed dance, but their qualities were distinctly different.

Li Pei’en’s every move seemed calculated. The angle of his arm, the distance of his steps—each was as stable as if measured. His body was the embodiment of control: taut, coiled elegance. At every beat, the contraction and hold of his muscles were visible, full of contained power. Yet this very restraint radiated a strange, silent provocation, as if to announce that his world was in order, and only the man opposite him was the variable that required such vigilance. His gaze, sharp behind the gold-rimmed lenses, followed the rhythm relentlessly, also tracking Jiang Heng, allowing himself no slack.

Jiang Heng, by contrast, was steeped in casual laziness. His rhythm always rode a hair ahead of the beat—not a mistake, but the mark of a man with room to spare, a nonchalant challenge to the prescribed order. The black silk of his shirt rippled with light as he moved, and the two neckties seemed to become extensions of his limbs, living tendrils. They cut smooth, suggestive arcs through the air, sometimes grazing dangerously close to Li Pei’en’s tensed forearm, leaving a fleeting, barely-there sensation, but always maintaining that final millimeter of distance—a deliberate, torturous suspension.

A faint smile played at his lips, his eyes half-lidded, as if entirely lost in some internal rhythm only he could hear, yet he clearly registered every tense detail of Li Pei’en’s form.

During a close turn, their shoulders nearly brushed. Jiang Heng used the cover of the music, his voice low, a breathy murmur that slid into Li Pei’en’s ear:

“You’re very focused tonight.”

The words, buried in the heavy bass, became a secret meant only for them.

Li Pei’en’s breath faltered almost imperceptibly. He didn’t answer, didn’t even look at Jiang Heng, but his peripheral vision, filtered through his lenses, caught the smile at the corner of the other man’s mouth. His response, however, came through his movement—

The next sequence became sharper, more precise, carrying a stubborn determination to suppress any rising tide of emotion.

At that moment, their reflections in the mirror were synchronized, yet filled with an invisible tension because of their divergent inner rhythms. Li Pei’en was precision and sharp control—a frozen flame. Jiang Heng was the deliberate quarter-beat delay, the lazy, worldly tease—a restless wind trying to thaw the ice. This synchrony within asynchrony, these tiny fractures beneath the polish, breathed the first note of dangerous, heart-racing tension into the dance.

As the music slid into a transitional passage, the choreography shifted, mirroring the unspoken evolution of their relationship.

Li Pei’en stepped forward, launching into his solo section with precision. His movements were clean, each pose locked solid. The controlled strength of his core, the tension in his extended arms—all bore the perfect geometry shaped by rigorous training. The muscles beneath the white shirt flexed and relaxed in the light, visible for a moment.

Yet after a quick spin, he instinctively reached up to adjust his gold-rimmed glasses, which had slipped slightly. That small gesture betrayed a current within him not quite as calm as he appeared. Something flickered behind his lenses, then was suppressed, his focus returning.

Then came Jiang Heng’s solo.

He glided into view from behind Li Pei’en, his movements loose and fluid. The red-soled shoes slid gracefully across the floor, as if skating on ice. The black silk of his shirt shimmered, the two neckties floating with the undulations of his body, like living tendrils tracing hypnotic patterns in the air.

Jiang Heng’s languor held a worldly ease. Sometimes his gaze rested on Li Pei’en’s tense back, assessing with a touch of amusement; other times it drifted lazily away, as if nothing could hold his interest. But the subtle, natural sway of his hips in time to the music exuded an unconscious temptation—something suspended between innocence and experience.

The solos seemed independent, but beneath the surface, currents flowed. Under the cover of the music, their breathing unconsciously searched for the other’s rhythm. Li Pei’en’s deep exhalations seemed to respond to one of Jiang Heng’s casual turns; Jiang Heng’s slightly ragged exhale seemed an unspoken appreciation of Li Pei’en’s perfect placement.

Their reflections in the mirrored wall overlapped, separated, overlapped again—two magnetic fields drawing together and repelling. Li Pei’en’s rigorous control and Jiang Heng’s spontaneous ease formed a strange complementarity: one, a precisely carved iceberg; the other, free-flowing flame.

At one moment, when their eyes met unexpectedly in the mirror, Li Pei’en’s heart skipped a beat. He saw the corner of Jiang Heng’s mouth lift in a faint, ambiguous smile—a smile holding more than he dared to examine.

The music flowed on. Their dance continued. But something had already begun to shift, imperceptibly.

The music surged to its climax, flooding the space with waves of rhythm. A single follow-spot cut through the darkness, enveloping them in a hazy halo of light. They stood face-to-face, dancing the same sequence again, but this time, everything was different.

At close range, Jiang Heng’s height created a subtle pressure, but Li Pei’en stood straight, responding with an undeniable presence. Their long limbs moved through the light, a pair of graceful black and white cranes engaged in a silent duel in the dark.

As the intensity grew, Li Pei’en’s gold-rimmed glasses slipped further down his nose, the lenses catching the scattered light. This time, he didn’t adjust them, letting them balance precariously. The loosely knotted black tie, already undone, swung freely against his chest with each movement—a desire breaking its bonds.

During a turn, Jiang Heng’s silk necktie brushed Li Pei’en’s throat. The touch was as fleeting as a dragonfly skimming water, yet both men faltered for half a beat. Time seemed to stretch impossibly.

The lights swirled around them, an invisible lens capturing every minute expression. Their gazes tangled in the half-dark—Jiang Heng’s eyes still held their lazy curiosity, but now a hidden fire smoldered beneath; Li Pei’en responded with controlled resistance, yet the slight tremor of his lashes betrayed his inner turbulence.

In this state of perfect synchrony, a different kind of tension built. Their eyes met and clashed with each rapid shift. Jiang Heng’s gaze was deep as night, searching, assessing—trying to breach every defense. Li Pei’en met it without flinching, his own eyes carrying a mixture of defiance, uncertainty, and something else—something he didn’t want to name.

All the unspoken things—the unacknowledged intimacy built during side-by-side practice, the tentative probings of the solos—all of it converged in this moment, expressed through synchronized bodies and locked eyes, reaching a dangerous edge. Each breath tested the limits of restraint, each meeting of eyes probed a boundary they shouldn’t cross.

The music still thundered, but their world had narrowed to the ghost of the other’s reflection. The air itself seemed to crystallize with a perilous, seductive charge—as if the slightest contact would ignite an uncontrollable blaze.

Yet they held the balance, dancing gracefully at the very edge of losing control. Like their relationship, they hovered in the moment before emergence, sustaining the most exquisite tension.

The final drumbeat crashed down, and then—silence. A sudden, absolute silence.

The final pose held Jiang Heng leaning forward, Li Pei’en leaning slightly back, their faces inches apart. Jiang Heng’s black silk necktie had somehow tangled with Li Pei’en’s loosened tie, a fragile connection between them—a coincidence woven by fate.

In the dim light, only their ragged breathing filled the space. Sweat traced a line down Jiang Heng’s temple, falling to the floor with an almost inaudible sound. Li Pei’en’s chest heaved, his white shirt soaked through, clinging to his skin.

Time thickened, slowed.

Jiang Heng raised a hand, moving with the gentleness of handling something fragile. He carefully straightened the glasses that had slipped down Li Pei’en’s nose, his fingertips brushing his temple. That slight contact burned hotter than any of the passionate movements before.

“See you later?” Jiang Heng’s voice was low, carrying his usual casualness, but with an undertow only the other could recognize.

Li Pei’en didn’t answer, just inclined his head. The small movement caught the light on his lenses, hiding the emotion in his eyes.

When they finally drew apart, the tangled ties separated, as if ending a brief dream. But the charged ambiguity lingering in the air clung stubbornly, more difficult to escape than any physical tie.

Two solitary spotlights fell on them, capturing Jiang Heng’s hand still suspended near Li Pei’en’s neck, and Li Pei’en’s posture—balanced between invitation and withdrawal. The unfinished touch, the unresolved distance, spoke louder than any intimacy.

The final image: the small gap between them—a space that seemed impassable, yet desperately longed for. Like the boundary that always existed between them: dangerous, yet impossible not to test.

The studio lights flickered on, one by one. Reality returned.

The hotel curtains weren’t fully drawn; a sliver of moonlight fell diagonally across the floor, etching a silver mark on the wood. The air conditioning hummed softly, but it couldn’t dispel the rising heat in the room.

Jiang Heng stood with his back to the light, the buttons of his black silk shirt undone to his waist. His fingertips traced Li Pei’en’s collarbone, still damp with post-dance sweat, shimmering faintly in the moonlight. Li Pei’en shivered slightly. His gold-rimmed glasses lay on the nightstand; without them, everything took on a soft, blurred texture.

“Your skin is burning,” Jiang Heng murmured, his fingertips sliding down, across the open collar of Li Pei’en’s white shirt. Silk and cotton whispered against each other, loud in the quiet room.

Li Pei’en didn’t answer. He reached up and undid Jiang Heng’s last button. The black silk slipped from his shoulders, revealing the firm plane of his chest.

Jiang Heng took his wrist and pressed his palm flat against his own heart. Its rhythm was strong, urgent, transmitted through skin.

Clothes fell away, one by one, scattered on the carpet—discarded armor. Moonlight traced the curve of Jiang Heng’s spine, the lines of tensed muscle beneath. Li Pei’en’s fingertips moved slowly down the column of his vertebrae, feeling each small ridge. Where their skin met, heat built to an unbearable intensity—then stopped, just short of the breaking point.

Jiang Heng’s hands braced on the headboard on either side of Li Pei’en’s head, the veins standing out on his forearms like struggling vines. His breath was heavy against Li Pei’en’s neck, but he didn’t move closer.

“Wait,” Li Pei’en said softly, his fingers tracing the raised veins at Jiang Heng’s wrist. The sensation was vivid—he could almost feel the blood pulsing beneath the skin.

They looked at each other in the moonlight. Sweat mingled where their bodies touched. Every contact was careful, tentative—testing, restraining. Jiang Heng’s fingertips traced patterns on Li Pei’en’s waist, leaving trails of almost-contact.

In this moment, what remained unfinished was more compelling than any completion. The suspended touches, the trembling restraint—they spoke a deeper longing than any possession.

Outside, the city lights dimmed, one by one. In this room, something more profound than desire was growing in the moonlight.

The hotel doorbell rang. Sharp. Insistent.

It cut through the space like a needle—a cold intrusion into the fragile, overfilled bubble of breath and unspoken things.

Both men froze.

All movement, all locked gazes, forced to a halt.

Li Pei’en instinctively pulled back, creating a few inches of distance—a chasm. Panic flickered in his eyes, as if waking from a dream too real. He turned away from Jiang Heng, his voice carrying the faintest trace of unsteadiness as he addressed the air: “…Probably… probably the staff.”

He put his glasses back on and walked quickly to the door. His fingers were cold when they gripped the handle. He took a breath, then opened it.

Outside stood a staff member, expression businesslike, holding a folder, about to speak. Li Pei’en cut him off, a little too quickly: “Teacher Jiang is asleep. If there’s anything, just send it to the group chat. I’ll let him know after I read it.”

He kept his voice steady, but his desire to end the conversation was obvious.

The staff member paused, glanced into the dim room, seemed to accept the excuse, nodded, handed over the folder, and left.

Li Pei’en closed the door without a pause.

Click.

The heavy door shut behind them. The sound of the lock was decisive—a signal that sealed them in as surely as it shut the world out.

No lights were turned on. The city’s neon glow filtered through the gap in the curtains, filling the room with a thick, painterly light, like melted jazz notes pooling on the dark carpet and white sheets. The air still held the heat of their dancing, and a new, volatile stillness.

Jiang Heng pressed Li Pei’en against the door and kissed him.

It was a messy, urgent kiss, carrying the pent-up force of something long suppressed—an invasion, a claiming. Li Pei’en made a sound against his mouth, not of protest but of acceptance, tilting his head back, parting his lips, letting him in.

Their mouths were slick, tasting of Assam tea and salt sweat. Teeth scraped accidentally. Their breathing was rough, tangled. Jiang Heng’s hand pushed into Li Pei’en’s already-ruined shirt, his palm hot against the cool skin of his waist, feeling the muscles jump at the contact.

“Bed,” Li Pei’en said, his voice low, rough, leaving no room for negotiation.

Jiang Heng stopped. He looked at Li Pei’en’s face, softened and sharpened by the neon light—a face he knew so well, but the eyes behind those gold-rimmed lenses held nothing of their usual restraint. Only a deep, quiet pool, threatening to swallow everything. He lifted Li Pei’en easily, carried him the few steps to the bed, and laid him down on the mattress—reverent, and yet barely contained.

Their bodies pressed together, the heat of their hearts and the rising urgency clear even through the thin layers of cloth. Clothing was stripped away, tossed on the floor with soft sounds—silk shirt, trousers, finally the damp white shirt and the loosened tie.

When they were bare, Jiang Heng’s movements slowed. He braced himself above Li Pei’en, looking at him like a work of art returned. The neon light moved across the planes of his chest and stomach, sweat tracing the lines of muscle before falling onto Li Pei’en’s equally damp skin, spreading into darker pools.

He lowered himself. Not to bite or take, but to trace the shape of Li Pei’en’s lips with his own, then move down—jaw, throat, leaving a wet, stinging mark on his collarbone. His kisses were like jazz improvisation: now sustained, now urgent.

Li Pei’en’s eyes were closed. Small sounds escaped his throat. His fingers wound into Jiang Heng’s damp hair—not to push away, but to guide. When Jiang Heng’s mouth found his chest, he arched off the bed, his toes curling, pulling the white sheet into creases.

“Okay?” Jiang Heng lifted his head. His voice was wrecked, his eyes openly burning—but he waited, waiting for permission.

Li Pei’en opened his eyes and looked at him. Unfocused, fathomless. He didn’t speak. He lifted his hips, pressing deliberately against Jiang Heng’s answering heat.

It was the last restraint.

Jiang Heng made a sound, low in his throat. He separated Li Pei’en’s legs, his fingers slick, entering him with an urgency that bordered on clumsy. Li Pei’en’s breath caught, his brow tightening, his fingers digging into the muscle of Jiang Heng’s arm, leaving white marks.

“Slow…” he breathed.

Jiang Heng forced himself to slow, though sweat already stood out on his forehead. He worked with painstaking care, his kisses falling like rain on Li Pei’en’s closed eyes, his cheek, his neck, until he felt the body beneath him begin to soften, begin to respond, begin to meet him.

When he finally pressed forward, they both made the same sound—a long, held exhalation, something between pain and completion.

What followed was like jazz at its best: improvised, wild, and perfectly in sync. Jiang Heng was the apparent lead, driving with all his strength, each movement deep, each thrust a declaration of everything he’d held back. The bed kept time beneath them, a counterpoint to the rhythm of their bodies.

But listen closely: every move Jiang Heng made was a response. He felt Li Pei’en’s body like his own instrument. When Li Pei’en began to meet him, when his sounds became words, Jiang Heng answered. When he seemed overwhelmed, Jiang Heng shifted, gave him room.

Li Pei’en’s glasses were gone. His eyes were unfocused now, his face flushed, all the careful control stripped away. His legs were locked around Jiang Heng’s waist, his toes curling, his body open to the force that seemed to be driving toward his very center. The sweat slicking their skin caught the blue neon, gleaming with the light of desire.

Jiang Heng lowered himself, licking the tears from the corners of Li Pei’en’s eyes—a response to too much pleasure—and spoke against his ear, rough words that were both coarse and true.

“Look at me…” Jiang Heng’s voice was a demand, his rhythm intensifying.

Li Pei’en opened his eyes and met the black flame burning there. In them, he saw everything—desire, obsession, and the reflection of his own unguarded self.

The end came suddenly, overwhelmingly. Li Pei’en arched, his neck a taut line, a short, sharp sound escaping him as his body tightened. Jiang Heng felt the convulsion around him and followed, Li Pei’en’s name a rough cry against his skin.

For a moment, the world contracted to two beating hearts and the slow, shared rhythm of their breathing.

Jiang Heng didn’t move away. He lay on Li Pei’en, his weight a complete gift, his face buried in the hollow of his neck, breathing in the scent of him. Li Pei’en’s hand was limp on his back, tracing the marks left there without intention.

The white sheet was ruined, tangled around them, holding the evidence of their exhaustion. The blue neon still turned in the room, marking this moment of satiated intimacy as something to be kept.

It seemed that Jiang Heng had taken, taken, taken. But he knew the truth: every movement, every loss of control, had been in service of the body beneath him. He had offered his strength, his heat, his wanting—all of it, freely.

And Li Pei’en, in his surrender, had been the one to receive it all.

THE END