Chapter Text
Little firecracker, his mother would whisper the words with a smile, pressing her lips to a smaller Xia Fei’s temple. Quick to light up and quick to lash out. He’d gotten low, stern talking to’s, isolation on the creaking second step in the corridor until dinner time. He’d gotten decisive tugs on the ear, the hiss of be good, don’t cause your tired old mum any trouble—until at last, Xia Fei resolved to be good.
But back when the cost was small enough to hardly count at all, something would spark the ignition in his short fuse, leaving him with a sheepish grin and a half sincere apology. Surely, he’s been admonished enough to know better by now. Or at least enough to know that his rashness could stand to lose him a lot more in the bowels of Bridon. And yet.
In the packed hotel lobby, head spinning at the opulence he is now part-time a part of, Xia Fei hangs back by one of the catering tables the other models would prod at but never truly touch. His hands, he notices, won’t stop fidgeting. Smoothing down the designer suit—an eye-catching emerald accents the collar, the hem—and fiddling with the gold cuff links, a perfect match to the jewels adorned on his ears and around his neck; all of it catching the chandelier’s crystal-cool light.
It's Vein who picked it all out, of course. And yet he isn’t here to swat Xia Fei’s hands back down to his sides. No low voice to sand down his jagged nerves and tell him: it won’t do any good, being nervous; this is an opportunity, Felix.
The fidgeting isn’t helping but the wine is, probably. Most of it red which he hates. Or champagne, which makes his stomach churn. Regardless, he lets the waiters glide by and top up his glass with a grateful smile.
During one of his obligatory rounds through the people making mind-numbing small talk, Xia Fei spots a last supper-type table by the edge of the lobby near a half-opened window. The table is filled with bottles and the overflow of unwanted appetizers, a perfect place to take a breather before throwing himself back into the tedium of networking.
His head now spins with the buzz of constantly refilling his glass, the ill advised mixing of drinks, and less with trying to consider the cost of the shiny marbled floors, and live pianist’s subdued but ceaseless background melody. The foreground is a rumble of voices—contained laughter; the clink of wine flutes against mild-mannered cheers; the low hum of negotiations made.
Xia Fei should be back in the thick of it all. Instead, he catches himself glancing over towards the open double doors as if someone might swoop in to save him from this stifling soiree of an event.
But Vein wouldn't come.
He'd said as much, chortling when Xia Fei asked. "I'm partially funding it, but I don't actually have the time to make an appearance. I’m expecting you’ll be good even without my supervision, yes?"
Then Xia Fei nodded, so vigorously that Vein looked as though he was holding back another laugh. "I'll be good laoban, I won't let you down."
So when a broad shouldered white man with a clean-cut, grey speckled beard approaches him, Xia Fei’s lost count of precisely how many glasses he’s knocked back. From his lanyard and his looks, he must be a creative director or photographer—someone high up in the modelling food chain. Someone Xia Fei wants to impress and perform to for the possibility of being paid a Bridon living wage. Putting on his camera smile, Xia Fei closes the distance to greet him.
Hopes his face is the right amount of flushed from the gross wine. Notices his tongue, heavy in his mouth when he says, "hi there, I'm one of the models working under the talent agency, Felix, nice to meet you, sir—"
“Call me Jon.”
The beginnings of nausea bubble in his gut.
Maybe with how absurdly fancy the central Yingdu lobby is, they'd blown their budget and had to settle for the cheap stuff. His mum always tells him wine like that is no good, that stuff, so bad for his health. How classless would it be to slink away after this conversation and throw it all up, tailored trousers on the spotless tiles? He’s seriously weighing it up. And then without warning or reason, Vein comes to mind again; scanning for crimson cascading to black beyond the suit shoulder, tuning out the finer details of the client’s spiel in favour of nodding vacantly. Thinking instead of pressing his face to porcelain waiting for the sickness to pass, and calling Vein, saying laoban, I drank way too much. Then he sees it—a splash of red amidst a crowd—his heart lurching until the distant figure comes into closer view.
“Ahh, am I boring you?—looks like you’re nodding off,” the client says. He lets out an empty laugh, sounding displeased in a distinctly authoritative way. This is an opportunity, Felix.
Xia Fei masks his dejection, rushing out a, “no, no of course not,” with a saccharine expression and wave of his hand. “I’m all ears!”
“Good. Look, I think you could be a great fit for this concept, kid…but you’ve got to prove it to me, first…”
“Oh, uh, how so?”
The client presents him with another bottle of wine, a grin wrinkling his rugged features.
"Could start with another glass of this before we head out to talk details—" he edges closer, practically pinning Xia Fei between one of the stony marble pillars and sharp polished edge of the table.
Despite himself, Xia Fei laughs, sheepish. His gaze falls over to the bite-sized egg cress sandwiches and a silver ice bucket with one lonely bottle left. But his laughter doesn’t diffuse the tension like it should. Like it usually does, with him flashing a grin as apologetic as it is dazzling, a distraction tactic that does the job well enough. The client remains where he is, waiting. It’s only when Xia Fei doesn’t budge, his laugh petering off and smile faltering, that the man’s expectant expression solidifies into something else. His eyes narrow with the edge of someone looking to cash in on an unpaid debt.
“Actually,” starts Xia Fei, “I—”
"Come on—I’m only asking to drink a little more! I heard it’s rude to refuse a superior where you lot are from. Don’t wanna be impolite, do you—" he plucks up the laminated card dangling at the end of Xia Fei’s lanyard, flipping it round and thumbing over the name, still grinning— “Felix?”
It’s undeniable now that something salacious lurks in the client’s darkened gaze, the condescending dip of his brows. Hot booze breath hitting Xia Fei’s cheek. He is no stranger to this look. He has seen this look on different days, on different faces. In guilty flashes and unashamed indulgences, but all the same in the end.
Xia Fei could close his eyes and still, the feeling it gives him stays: an intermittent spark at the centre of his chest; uncomfortable heat pulsing underneath his skin and crawling up his throat; his whole body burning up.
“Kid, are you gonna answer—”
His fingers are numb, hot, around the neck of the bottle when he grabs hold of it, moving only out of the crushing instinct for survival. Like a prey animal in pursuit, he strikes.
For a beat, Xia Fei feels the sick satisfaction of the hit. The client’s wide eyes. The resonance of violence—skull to bottle to his heat-numb skin. The brief buzz that overtakes everything, pleasant white noise. Glass shatters and catches on the cold lights, cuts his hand, though he can’t feel it yet. Time temporarily suspends, stretching out into an unimaginable infinity, before it all erupts red-hot.
Big glass shards and smaller specks alike glint on the floor as blood gushes down the client's sweat-glistened forehead. His mouth twists open to let out a howl, silencing the pleasantries. Gasps and murmurs ripple through the lobby. Xia Fei’s all adrenaline as the murmurs morph into shouts and the stillness turns to rumbling footsteps. Still numb and too warm at once he remembers the window, feet moving before ever considering facing up to his mistake. Instead he scrambles up onto the sill and shoves open the window’s bottom rail, clambering out into the fresh night, knees scraping harsh against the concrete.
It's no good at all, but Xia Fei runs.