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Xia Fei didn’t use to wear clothes like these, not even for shoots. Fancy clothes. Truly fancy clothes. The kind where he would be afraid of getting even a single speck of dust on them.
It was easy to see light dust on black. Impurities. They would stick to the fabric, impossible to get them all out before new would come. White bespeckling black. Soot and ashes.
It was harder to see blood on red. He used to wonder, three years ago, if that was why Vein wore it. To hide the stains. Xia Fei didn’t think they were stains. Not on him. They were closer to offerings. Or perhaps symbols of power.
White ashes staining black fabric, red hiding the blood. That was what he’d become. What he’d chosen to become.
Red was Vein’s colour. If Xia Fei was honest, and these days he always was, it didn’t suit himself. He wore blue and yellow and green like they had been invented for him, but not red. He would look at himself in the mirror, and he’d see a cluttered mess of a man.
He looked the same as three years ago, but he didn’t present the same. His eyes looked dead these days. They reminded him of Lu Guang.
(Sometimes he felt a bit dead inside, too.
When Vein wasn’t there. When he was left alone with his thoughts. When the urges grew and the only thing stopping him from reaching into his pocket and taking out that tiny box of matches was the fear of the aftermath. The guilt over making a mess. Over making Vein take care of him. Over worrying him.)
Still, even though there were better options, even though he knew how to style himself and style himself well, he didn’t change anything. He kept the red. He kept Vein.
He didn’t have to look good in it, he didn’t need to. He didn’t need to look good for anyone.
All he did was make his affiliations clear.
He always matched Vein. He never overdressed. He wanted it to be clear: I serve this man.
This brilliant man who had saved him countless times, to whom he would owe so many debts under normal circumstances, under the circumstances that he wasn’t Vein. But he was Vein, and that’s what mattered. So there were no debts and there were no lies.
That day three years ago, when it had all begun. He had been given a promise. One in the form of a ring that didn’t have anything to do with marriage, one that just meant he belonged somewhere. He belonged with Vein. So he had taken one of his Ma’s old necklaces, detached the pendant, and replaced it with the ring.
They matched that way. He liked seeing their reflection in windows, broken shards, bloodstained puddles and seeing that they matched.
He didn’t wear red well, but he wore it with intention. Wore it to hide the stains and to show who he was.
He wore black well, and it would never stop showing his actions to the world. Stop showing the ashes flying in the air around him. The evidence of a fire.
Liu Xiao had taken to calling him a pyromaniac. He might have hated the guy but he also couldn’t exactly refute him. There was that joy, that ecstasy from watching the flames devour everything.
It was like his soul was being freed all over again.
Freed from the sins of that school. That first fire. That first instance of pure glee and euphoria consuming his every thought until all that was left was the barren wasteland of his mind. Blank.
That wasn’t his first arson.
His first arson was after Vein came back from the dead. Had it been a request? Revenge? Liu Xiao had said they should leave a mark, make a show of it, a symbol of change. So when he’d held out that lighter and had looked Xia Fei dead in the eyes with that infuriating smile of his, there was little pause for thought.
He’d burned those records.
He’s burned it all.
The white never washed out.
Now, he was here. Back in China. He’d only set foot here to visit his Ma before, after she’d returned home. It wasn’t his home, never was, but he could make it his. It hadn’t worked with his Ma, but maybe it could work with Vein. If he devoted himself enough, spent enough time here, understood why half his blood was from here, he could make this his home.
After all, Vein had shown him that blood was beautiful.
“Laoban.”
Vein raised his eyes, but he didn’t open his mouth.
Ugh, this was embarrassing. Why did he insist that…?
“A-Ying…”
“Yes?”
Truth to be told, he didn’t know why he’d called out to him. Comfort, perhaps. Security. Hope for the familiar in the unfamiliar. Still, he would not lie. “Nothing. Just glad you’re here.”
“Hah! I wouldn’t just leave you with those two.” He raised his hand lazily to indicate Liu Xiao and his friend.
Li Tianchen, was it? Vein had called him ‘Liu Xiao’s little pet project’ when he’d asked what they were here for. Apparently, Liu Xiao took him in not long ago, but they’ve known each other for years. The whole thing sounded dubious at best to Xia Fei, but he kept his mouth shut (it still showed on his face).
Their interactions looked so… normal, it was scary. Wasn’t the kid responsible for dozens of homicides?
He didn’t feel normal after the fires. Always felt empty, in a bad way. (Not always. Only when Vein wasn’t there.)
He watched as Liu Xiao said something, and Li Tianchen kicked his shin. After that, there seemed to be names. Perhaps they weren’t talking about something innocuous, after all.
Liu Xiao seemed so different. It was like he was putting on an alternative mask. Or maybe, just maybe, letting one slip. Vein had laughed when he’d talked about the two before. Had said that Liu Xiao was fond of the kid.
Stupid.
How did he end up here, sitting next to his boss, watching his very-reluctant-ally talk to his boytoy?
Stupid.
It was all so stupid, that it felt mundanely normal again.