Work Text:
The first person to realize that Yuan Hong was in love with Zhao Shaoshang was’n Yuan Hong, it was Yang Dezhi.
There was nothing particularly impressive about that.
Yang Dezhi later thought it would be more accurate to say that Yang Dezhi had simply been the first person who could no longer pretend not to see it, because the signs had been there for weeks and were so obvious that Yuan Hong might as well have walked around the police station with a sign hanging from his neck. The only problem was that everyone knew Yuan Hong as a sensible, disciplined man who was not especially interested in making his own life more complicated, so when the captain of the Fourth Division appeared at Zhao Shaoshang's desk for the third time in one week carrying a cup of tea prepared exactly the way Zhao Shaoshang liked it, no one's first thought was: the captain is in love. They thought instead: Young Master Zhao has apparently driven the captain into the next stage of a nervous breakdown.
It was a reasonable theory.
Zhao Shaoshang, after all, could make Yuan Hong do things none of his subordinates had ever seen before. He could walk into his office without knocking. He could sit on the desk even though there was a chair right beside it. He could look through documents he had no business touching, steal Yuan Hong's pen, drink from his cup, and answer a deathly calm “Shaoshang” with an equally calm “Hong-ge,” only to go right on doing exactly what he was not supposed to do. Most alarming of all, he was still alive.
Yang Dezhi had seen people punished for far less.
He had seen Yuan Hong throw a man out of his office for moving a report to the wrong side of the desk.
Zhao Shaoshang had once moved the entire desk. Just because he felt like it, and Yuan Hong had later helped him move it back.
Yang Dezhi should have understood then.
The final revelation came one rainy afternoon, however, when Zhao Shaoshang arrived at the police station twenty minutes later than usual, soaked through, offended by the weather, the coachman, the mud, Beijing's drainage system, and—for reasons no one could establish—a certain chestnut vendor three streets away.
“I don't want to talk about it.”
No one had asked him anything.
Zhao Shaoshang crossed the main room, leaving a trail of small wet footprints behind him, snapped his fan shut with injured dignity, and stopped in front of Yuan Hong's office. Yang Dezhi looked up from his report just as the door opened.
Yuan Hong looked at Zhao Shaoshang.
He looked at the wet hair.
He looked at the soaked collar.
He looked at the mud on the pale shoes.
And then he did something that made Yang Dezhi slowly put down his pen.
“What happened?”
Zhao Shaoshang raised an eyebrow.
“It's raining.”
“I can see that.”
“If you can see that, why are you asking?”
Yuan Hong was silent for a moment. A normal person would have taken that as the moment immediately preceding murder. Yang Dezhi, however, had known his captain long enough to notice Yuan Hong's gaze moving over Zhao Shaoshang's face, pausing on his hands and then his clothes, as though checking whether there might be an injury hidden somewhere beneath the rain, mud, and wounded dignity.
“You're soaked.”
Zhao Shaoshang looked down at himself.
“That usually happens to people when it rains.”
Yuan Hong took off his coat.
Yang Dezhi stopped breathing.
Two policemen at the neighboring desk also froze mid-motion; every pen in the building seemed to stop writing at once.
Yuan Hong walked over to Zhao Shaoshang and, without a word, draped the coat over his shoulders.
Silence fell.
Zhao Shaoshang looked at the coat.
Then at Yuan Hong.
Then, very slowly, he looked around the room.
Yang Dezhi never forgot that look.
There was understanding in it.
Not surprise.
Not embarrassment.
Understanding.
And something else.
Something absolutely terrible.
Amusement.
Zhao Shaoshang knew.
“Captain Yuan.”
“Hm?”
“You'll get cold.”
“I'm not cold.”
“Ah.”
Yang Dezhi did not like that “ah.”
He liked even less the way Zhao Shaoshang slid his hands into the decidedly too-long sleeves of Yuan Hong's coat, wrapped it more snugly around himself, and smiled with the innocence of a man who had just found a weapon and decided to see how much damage he could do with it.
“Good.”
Yuan Hong looked at him one second too long.
Then he turned and went back into his office.
Yang Dezhi watched Zhao Shaoshang follow him.
The door closed.
The main room remained silent.
One of the younger policemen cleared his throat.
“The captain gave Young Master Zhao his coat.”
Yang Dezhi looked at him.
“I can see that.”
“The captain never gives anyone his coat.”
“I know.”
“I had a fever once.”
Yang Dezhi frowned.
“What?”
“Thirty-nine degrees. In winter. The captain told me to stop being dramatic.”
The policeman sitting beside him lifted his head.
“He told me to finish my report.”
“I fainted.”
“I remember.”
“The captain stepped over me.”
Yang Dezhi closed his eyes.
Everything suddenly became very clear.
“Don't say anything.”
The two policemen looked at him.
Yang Dezhi pointed toward the closed office door.
“Absolutely nothing.”
+++
By the end of the day, every policeman knew about the incident.
Yang Dezhi never found out how it happened.
He even conducted a small investigation, which ultimately established that the first policeman had told the second, the second had told the third, the third had told no one but had made a face in front of the secretary, the secretary had understood the face, the secretary had told the archives clerk, the archives clerk had told someone from the Third Division because, in his opinion, it was “information relevant to interdepartmental security,” and by around five in the afternoon Yang Dezhi overheard two men he had never seen before discussing in the corridor whether, after the wedding, Young Master Zhao would move in with Yuan Hong or Yuan Hong would be taken into the Zhao family.
There was no wedding.
There wasn't even a courtship.
Yuan Hong apparently still did not know he was in love.
Zhao Shaoshang, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly dangerous.
The next day, he brought breakfast.
There would have been nothing strange about that if he had brought breakfast only for himself. Zhao Shaoshang liked to eat. He also liked complaining about food, improving food, criticizing the way other people ate, and claiming that Yuan Hong would shorten his life by twenty years if he continued to consider cold tea a meal. That morning, however, he arrived with two paper-wrapped parcels, sat down at Yuan Hong's desk, and took out two pairs of chopsticks.
Yang Dezhi was in the office.
He did not want to be there.
Fate apparently had a personal grudge against him.
“I'm not hungry.”
Zhao Shaoshang did not even look up.
“I didn't ask.”
“Shaoshang.”
“Yuan Hong.”
“I have work to do.”
“You can work after you eat.”
“I ate.”
Zhao Shaoshang went still.
Yang Dezhi felt a sudden, irrational fear.
“What did you eat?”
Yuan Hong looked at the report.
“Tea.”
Zhao Shaoshang slowly set down his chopsticks.
“Tea is not food.”
“I didn't say it was.”
“You said you ate.”
“I drank tea.”
“So you lied.”
“I did not lie.”
Yang Dezhi watched the exchange with the fascination of a man observing two lawyers preparing arguments for a trial whose subject was a bowl of congee.
Zhao Shaoshang narrowed his eyes.
Yuan Hong sighed.
Then, to Yang Dezhi's absolute horror, the captain put down the report, picked up the chopsticks, and began to eat.
Zhao Shaoshang brightened immediately.
“Try this,” Shaoshang said, pointing at something in the food parcel that Yang Dezhi could not see.
“I'm eating,” Yuan Hong replied quickly.
“Not that.”
“It's exactly the same thing.”
“It isn't.”
“Shaoshang.”
“Try it.”
Yuan Hong tried it.
Yang Dezhi stared.
Zhao Shaoshang glanced at him.
Their eyes met over Yuan Hong's shoulder.
Zhao Shaoshang smiled.
Yang Dezhi felt himself grow hot with pure second-hand embarrassment.
He knows.
Worse, Zhao Shaoshang knew that Yang Dezhi knew that he knew.
And now, apparently, they were accomplices in a matter Yang Dezhi had never agreed to take part in.
“Yang Dezhi.”
He straightened.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Why are you standing there?”
Yang Dezhi opened his mouth.
He closed it again with a quiet click of teeth.
He looked at Zhao Shaoshang.
Zhao Shaoshang was eating calmly.
“I forgot.”
Yuan Hong frowned.
“What did you forget?”
“That's what I'm trying to remember right now,” he said, then turned quickly.
He left.
Behind him, he heard Zhao Shaoshang laugh. He did not turn around. He was wiser than that. He had no intention of being dragged into whatever game Young Master Zhao was apparently playing.
+++
The military found out three days later.
This time, Yang Dezhi truly was not responsible.
Yuan Hong went to the Marshal's camp in connection with an investigation into weapons smuggling. Zhao Shaoshang had no official reason whatsoever to be there, which of course meant he went with him.
The reason he gave was, “I know antiques.”
The case had nothing to do with antiques.
When Yuan Hong pointed this out, Zhao Shaoshang replied, “Yet.”
Yuan Hong stared at him for several seconds, then apparently decided that further discussion would require energy he did not possess.
So he took him along.
The first officer figured it out after fourteen minutes of watching them.
The second needed a full twenty.
The third only understood during the interrogation of a suspect, when one of the soldiers shoved a crate too abruptly, Zhao Shaoshang took one step back, and Yuan Hong—standing on the other side of the room—stopped the interrogation in the middle of a sentence.
“Careful.”
The soldier froze.
Zhao Shaoshang looked at the crate.
Then at Yuan Hong.
“I'm fine.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why did you stop?”
“I didn't stop.”
There were seven people in the room.
All seven looked at Yuan Hong.
Yuan Hong looked back at them.
“What?”
Seven pairs of eyes immediately returned to work.
Zhao Shaoshang covered his mouth with his fan.
His eyes were laughing.
+++
The rumor reached the Marshal before dinner.
At first, the Marshal refused to believe it.
Not because he had anything against Zhao Shaoshang. Quite the opposite. Minister Zhao's son was intelligent, came from a good family, had connections, money, and—something the Marshal considered an extremely useful trait in anyone who might become involved with Yuan Hong—apparently was not afraid of his son.
The Marshal simply did not believe Yuan Hong possessed a sufficiently developed emotional awareness to fall in love.
“Yuan Hong?”
“Yes, Marshal.”
“With Young Master Zhao?”
“Yes, Marshal.”
The Marshal frowned.
The adjutant remained silent.
“That Yuan Hong? My son?”
The adjutant considered the question for a moment.
“You only have one son by that name, Marshal.”
The Marshal shot him a look.
The adjutant straightened.
“Yes. That Yuan Hong.”
The Marshal leaned back in his chair and for a moment looked like a man who had just been handed a report describing a natural phenomenon that contradicted all existing scientific knowledge.
“Did he tell him?”
“No.”
“Did Zhao Shaoshang tell him?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
The adjutant hesitated.
“We have eyes.”
The Marshal slowly raised his eyebrows.
“Yuan Hong has always had eyes.”
“Apparently not for this.”
The Marshal stared at the adjutant for several seconds.
Then he snorted with laughter. Well, if there was one thing he could praise his son for in his entire life, he had never expected it to be falling in love with the right person, but apparently the universe still had surprises in store for him.
Fortunately, Young Master Zhao seemed considerably smarter than his son and, well, the Marshal had to admit he was rather easy on the eyes, so at least Yuan Hong had good taste. He had clearly inherited that from his father.
+++
The next day, the Marshal decided to conduct the observation personally.
He did not call it an observation.
He was the Marshal. Marshals did not spy on their own sons over breakfast.
Marshals simply happened to eat breakfast in the same place as their son, his consultant, three officers, two adjutants, and Yang Dezhi, who looked as though he wanted to desert the moment Zhao Shaoshang arrived.
The Marshal needed seven minutes.
Zhao Shaoshang sat opposite Yuan Hong, telling him something about the owner of an antique shop. Yuan Hong was reading a report. At least theoretically, because he had not turned the page in the last five minutes.
“…so I told him that if he truly thought I was an idiot, he could at least have the decency to offer me a price appropriate for an idiot from the Zhao family.”
“Hm.”
“And he said that was insulting.”
“Hm.”
“So I bought his shop.”
“Hm.”
The Marshal looked at his son.
Yuan Hong was still looking at the report.
Zhao Shaoshang also looked at Yuan Hong.
“Yuan Hong.”
“Hm?”
“I just said I bought the shop.”
“You didn't.”
“How do you know?”
“You'd have nowhere to put any more things.”
Zhao Shaoshang blinked.
The Marshal blinked.
Yuan Hong turned the page.
“You bought two cabinets last month. They're both full.”
Zhao Shaoshang smiled slowly.
“You remembered?”
“You complained about it for three days.”
“You remembered.”
“It was difficult not to.”
“Yuan Hong.”
Yuan Hong finally looked up.
Zhao Shaoshang leaned across the table.
“What's my favorite color?”
Yang Dezhi closed his eyes.
The Marshal put down his cup and listened to the conversation with growing interest.
Yuan Hong frowned.
“Why?”
“I'm curious.”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“The occasion.”
Silence fell.
Zhao Shaoshang straightened.
“What?”
Yuan Hong apparently did not see the problem.
“You usually choose light blue, but when you have a family gathering, you wear darker colors more often. Burgundy, navy. For formal occasions, you choose lighter clothes unless you're expecting conflict, then you dress darker.”
No one moved. It seemed no one was even breathing.
Yuan Hong continued.
“You don't like green.”
Zhao Shaoshang stared at him with his mouth open.
“That's not true.”
“You only have two green outfits.”
“Three.”
“Two. Turquoise doesn't count as green.”
The Marshal slowly turned his head toward Yang Dezhi.
Yang Dezhi looked at the Marshal.
They did not need to say anything.
Oh no.
Zhao Shaoshang found his voice again.
“You remember all my clothes?”
“You have obvious habits,” Yuan Hong replied calmly.
“You know how many green outfits I own.”
Zhao Shaoshang pressed his lips together. The fan twitched in his hand. The Marshal saw the exact moment Young Master Zhao made a decision.
He was Yuan Hong's father. He recognized danger.
“Yuan Hong.”
“What?”
“Which one do you like best?”
Yuan Hong looked at him.
Yang Dezhi stared hard at the table.
One of the officers suddenly found the wall fascinating.
The Marshal did not take his eyes off his son.
Yuan Hong answered without hesitation.
“The light blue one.”
Zhao Shaoshang froze.
So did Yuan Hong.
Apparently, only after the words had left his mouth did he realize that something had gone wrong. He still could not tell whether anything dangerous was about to happen. Zhao Shaoshang very slowly opened his fan.
“The one with the embroidered sleeves?”
Yuan Hong was silent.
“Yuan Hong?” Shaoshang prompted gently.
“We need to discuss the case.”
“The one with the embroidered sleeves?”
“Shaoshang.”
“Yes or no?”
“It doesn't matter.”
“Yes or no?”
Yuan Hong looked at him in irritation.
“Yes.”
Zhao Shaoshang smiled from behind his fan.
“Good to know.”
The Marshal looked at the ceiling.
His son was a complete idiot.
Fortunately, Zhao Shaoshang was not an idiot like his son. All hope now rested with the Minister of Education's offspring.
+++
After breakfast, the Marshal summoned Yuan Hong to his office.
Yuan Hong came alone.
That was his first mistake.
The Marshal sat behind the desk. His adjutant stood on his right. Two officers stood on his left. Yang Dezhi was by the door and looked like a man who really, really did not want to take part in this meeting.
Yuan Hong stopped.
“What happened?”
The Marshal indicated a chair.
“Sit.”
“I'll stand.”
“As you like.”
Yuan Hong waited.
The Marshal studied his son for a moment. He wondered how a man capable of solving a complicated investigation from a trace of mud, a discrepancy in carriage travel time, and a badly fastened button could fail to notice something that every person within a five-kilometer radius had identified.
“What are you planning to do about Zhao Shaoshang?” the Marshal finally asked.
Yuan Hong frowned.
“In what sense?”
The Marshal looked at his adjutant.
The adjutant looked away, avoiding his gaze. That only irritated the Marshal more.
“Personally.”
“He's a consultant.”
“I'm not asking professionally.”
“He's helping with the investigation.”
“Yuan Hong.”
“What?”
The Marshal tightened his fingers around the armrest of his chair.
“Do you like him?”
Yuan Hong stared at him in mild confusion, then shrugged, almost losing his usual composed posture.
Yang Dezhi closed his eyes.
One of the officers held his breath.
“He's a good consultant.”
The Marshal slammed his palm onto the desk.
“Not as a consultant!”
Yuan Hong flinched.
“I don't understand.”
Yang Dezhi made a very quiet sound.
The Marshal turned his head.
“What?”
“Nothing, Marshal.”
The Marshal looked back at his son.
“You are in love with Zhao Shaoshang,” he informed Yuan Hong in a cold tone, almost as though passing sentence on him or delivering news of a family member's death.
After those words, the office fell into perfect silence.
Yuan Hong stared at his father.
The Marshal stared at Yuan Hong.
The adjutant stared at the floor.
The officers stared anywhere but at the family drama unfolding in front of them.
Yang Dezhi wondered whether it was possible to die of embarrassment on someone else's behalf.
Finally, Yuan Hong said:
“No.”
The Marshal narrowed his eyes.
“No?” the irritated Marshal asked.
“No,” Yuan Hong confirmed stubbornly.
“You know how many green outfits he owns.”
“That proves nothing.”
“You gave him your coat.”
“He was wet.”
“You stopped an interrogation because a crate moved in his direction.”
“It could have hit him.”
“It was three meters away from him.”
“It was heavy.”
“You buy him food.”
“He forgets to eat.”
Yang Dezhi opened his eyes.
It was such an absurd lie that everyone in the room looked at Yuan Hong as though he had suddenly grown a second head. Actually, a third head would have been more appropriate; a second would not have surprised anyone nearly as much as Yuan Hong's stubborn denial and refusal to admit feelings everyone else was certain of.
Zhao Shaoshang had never forgotten to eat in his life. Yuan Hong was the one capable of surviving an entire day on nothing but sweets and tea.
Yuan Hong realized his mistake too late.
The Marshal leaned forward.
“Zhao Shaoshang forgets to eat?” the Marshal repeated slowly.
Yuan Hong remained silent.
“As far as I know, Zhao Shaoshang is capable of interrupting an examination of a corpse because he smells dumplings.”
Yang Dezhi turned his face away.
One of the officers coughed.
Yuan Hong clenched his jaw.
“That's irrelevant.”
The Marshal stared at him in absolute silence for a moment.
“Son.”
Yuan Hong stiffened.
The Marshal very rarely called him that.
“Your entire division knows.”
Yuan Hong frowned.
“Knows what?”
“That you're in love.”
“I'm not.”
“The military knows.”
Yuan Hong looked at the officers.
Both immediately lowered their eyes.
“I'm not.”
“I know.”
“You're wrong,” Yuan Hong denied yet again.
The Marshal drew in a sharp breath through his nose.
Yang Dezhi saw a vein begin to pulse at his temple.
“Zhao Shaoshang knows.”
Yuan Hong opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
It was the first time the argument truly reached him.
The Marshal saw it.
Yang Dezhi saw it.
Everyone saw it.
Yuan Hong slowly looked at his father.
“What?”
The Marshal settled more comfortably into his chair, finally feeling a measure of satisfaction at seeing any genuine reaction on Yuan Hong's face. Perhaps the intervention would be useful after all.
There it was.
“Zhao Shaoshang knows.”
“How would he know?”
Yang Dezhi could not take it anymore.
“Captain.”
Yuan Hong looked at him.
Yang Dezhi immediately regretted speaking.
But it was too late.
“He... it's not subtle.”
Yuan Hong looked as though he had just been personally betrayed. As though he had opened a newly purchased packet of sweets only to discover it empty, as though he had been cheated.
“Shaoshang?”
“No. You,” Yang Dezhi clarified.
The silence that followed was the worst silence of Yang Dezhi's life.
Yuan Hong stared at him.
Yang Dezhi stared back at Yuan Hong.
The Marshal covered his mouth with one hand, barely managing to hide the broad, satisfied smile spreading across his face.
The adjutant stared at the ceiling.
“I am very subtle.”
Yang Dezhi wished for death.
“Yes, Captain.”
“Then why did you say I wasn't?”
“I didn't say that,” Yang Dezhi defended himself.
“You just did.”
“I phrased it badly.”
“How?”
Yang Dezhi opened his mouth.
The door opened.
Everyone turned their heads.
Zhao Shaoshang stood in the doorway.
He was wearing a light blue outfit.
With embroidered sleeves.
Yang Dezhi closed his eyes.
Of course.
Zhao Shaoshang looked around the room, let his gaze settle on Yuan Hong, and smiled.
“Hong-ge.”
Yuan Hong froze.
The Marshal looked at Zhao Shaoshang's clothes.
Then at his son.
Then back at Zhao Shaoshang.
Understanding appeared on his face.
“You know.”
Zhao Shaoshang blinked innocently.
“What do I know, Marshal?”
“Don't make an idiot out of me.”
“I wouldn't dare.”
Yuan Hong looked from his father to Zhao Shaoshang.
“What do you know?”
Zhao Shaoshang tilted his head.
“A great many things.”
“Shaoshang.”
“For example, I know the warehouse owner was lying.”
“Not that.”
“I also know Yang Dezhi has been avoiding looking me in the eye for three days.”
Yang Dezhi wanted to protest, but Zhao Shaoshang continued.
“I know your men stop talking whenever I walk into a room.”
Yuan Hong looked at Yang Dezhi.
Yang Dezhi looked at the floor.
“I know two soldiers made a bet yesterday about when you'll finally kiss me.”
One of the officers turned red.
The Marshal turned toward him.
“Which two?”
“Irrelevant.”
“Relevant to me.”
“Marshal.”
“What's the stake?”
“Marshal!”
Yuan Hong looked as though he was losing control of his own life.
Zhao Shaoshang, meanwhile, was clearly having an excellent time.
He stepped closer.
Yuan Hong looked at his clothes.
That was a mistake.
Zhao Shaoshang noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Do you like it?”
Yuan Hong immediately looked up at his face.
“What?”
“My outfit.”
“Shaoshang.”
“I wore it especially for you.”
At that moment, Yang Dezhi desperately wanted to cease existing. His body was still standing by the door, but his soul had left the room.
Yuan Hong turned red. Not much. Barely noticeably. Only the tips of his ears went pink. But everyone noticed.
The Marshal looked at his son's ears.
The adjutant looked at Yuan Hong's ears.
The officers looked at Yuan Hong's ears.
Against his own will, Yang Dezhi looked too.
Yuan Hong noticed that everyone was looking in the same direction—at him.
“What?”
No one answered.
Zhao Shaoshang smiled so broadly that he had to cover his mouth with his fan.
Yuan Hong looked at him suspiciously.
“You're doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“This.”
“What exactly?”
“I don't know.”
Zhao Shaoshang took one step closer.
“When you figure it out, tell me.”
He turned and left.
Yuan Hong watched him go.
The entire room watched Yuan Hong watching Zhao Shaoshang go.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
The Marshal sighed.
“I'm not in love,” Yuan Hong finally said as he strode quickly after Zhao Shaoshang's retreating figure.
“I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING!” the irritated Marshal shouted after him, even though a broad, amused smile was spread across his face.
Ah, youth...
Over the next week, the situation got worse.
Zhao Shaoshang had apparently discovered that he could temporarily deprive Yuan Hong of the ability to think logically and promptly turned it into a hobby.
He appeared at the police station in light blue outfits far more often than statistics could reasonably justify. Especially considering the size and variety of his wardrobe. Blue displaced every other color from daily use.
He brought Yuan Hong sweets.
He sat closer.
He leaned over Yuan Hong's shoulder while they read documents even though he could see the text perfectly well from his own seat.
One day, he straightened Yuan Hong's collar.
The entire Fourth Division watched.
Yuan Hong stood perfectly still.
Zhao Shaoshang smoothed the fabric.
“It was crooked,” he explained after a moment.
“I could have fixed it myself.”
“I know.”
“Then why...”
Zhao Shaoshang looked him directly in the eyes.
“I wanted to,” he replied, quiet satisfaction hidden in his voice.
Yuan Hong forgot what he had been saying.
Zhao Shaoshang walked away a moment later.
Yuan Hong watched him go.
Yang Dezhi crossed something out on a sheet of paper.
The policeman beside him leaned over.
“What's that?”
“Day six.”
“Since what?”
“Since the captain was informed.”
“Ah.”
The policeman thought about it.
“I say ten.”
“I'm not taking bets.”
“You took Chen's.”
“Chen put money on thirty days. That was a donation.”
+++
On the tenth day, Yuan Hong walked into the main room and saw Zhao Shaoshang talking to a young officer from the Marshal's camp.
The officer was handsome.
Zhao Shaoshang was laughing.
Yuan Hong stopped mid-step.
Yang Dezhi, sitting at his desk, noticed immediately.
Oh no.
The officer said something else.
Zhao Shaoshang touched his fan to the man's shoulder—not striking him painfully, merely giving him a light tap in the bright, friendly way he sometimes teased Yuan Hong when he was sufficiently amused and pleased at the same time.
Yuan Hong moved.
Yang Dezhi watched him with growing dread.
The captain crossed the room wearing the expression of a man who was absolutely calm, composed, and reasonable.
That was the worst part.
“Shaoshang,” he said calmly. Too calmly.
Zhao Shaoshang turned.
“Hong-ge,” Shaoshang called cheerfully as he looked at him.
“I need you.”
Zhao Shaoshang's eyes lit up.
“Really?”
Yuan Hong apparently heard his own words one second too late.
“For the case.”
“Ah.”
The officer smiled.
“We were just finishing our conversation,” the officer said, trying to return to the subject Yuan Hong's appearance had interrupted.
“No,” Yuan Hong said coldly.
Zhao Shaoshang blinked.
So did the officer.
Yuan Hong clenched his jaw.
“I mean, there isn't time.”
“There isn't?”
“No.”
“Is the case urgent?” Shaoshang asked with interest.
“Yes.”
Yang Dezhi looked at the document lying in front of him.
The case concerned a stolen bicycle.
Zhao Shaoshang apparently knew that too.
“I understand.”
He did not understand.
He knew.
That was worse.
He said goodbye to the officer and followed Yuan Hong toward the office. As they passed Yang Dezhi, Zhao Shaoshang stopped for one second.
“What day?”
Yang Dezhi stiffened.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Yang Dezhi.”
“Ten.”
Zhao Shaoshang sighed.
“I thought he'd be faster too.”
And he went into the office.
Yang Dezhi lowered his forehead onto the desk, a quiet groan escaping his lips while his soul wept and his consciousness begged his ancestors for mercy. Truly, he could not understand why his commander was incapable of doing this one thing the way he was supposed to.
+++
Yuan Hong understood on the thirteenth day.
Nothing dramatic happened.
There was no gunfight, no kidnapping, no explosion, no blood. Zhao Shaoshang simply fell asleep on the sofa in the office after a long day of work, his fan held loosely in one hand and his head resting on a cushion that someone—no one later admitted who—had placed there several weeks earlier.
Yuan Hong worked.
At least, he tried.
He read the same sentence for the fourth time.
Then he looked up.
Shaoshang was asleep.
Without motion, he was strangely quiet. Younger. Calmer. He was not wrinkling his nose, rolling his eyes, talking, waving his fan, criticizing Yuan Hong's tea or his personality. A shaft of late-afternoon light falling through the window rested across his cheek.
Yuan Hong stared.
And suddenly, without any warning at all, he remembered his father's words.
You are in love with Zhao Shaoshang.
He remembered Yang Dezhi.
You are not very subtle, sir.
He remembered the light blue outfit.
I wore it especially for you.
He remembered the coat.
The breakfasts.
The fan.
Shaoshang's voice in his office.
The irritation when Shaoshang was late.
The relief when he walked through the door.
That he knew how Shaoshang took his tea.
Which foods he disliked.
Which arm he leaned on the table more often when he was tired.
What his laugh sounded like when something genuinely amused him, and what the polite version sounded like.
Which outfit Yuan Hong liked best.
Yuan Hong went still.
“Oh no.”
Zhao Shaoshang opened his eyes.
Yuan Hong looked at him.
Shaoshang blinked sleepily.
“What?”
Yuan Hong stared.
Zhao Shaoshang slowly sat up.
“Yuan Hong?”
“They were right.”
For one second, Zhao Shaoshang looked confused.
Then he understood.
And the little bastard smiled.
Not broadly.
Not triumphantly.
Worse.
Warmly.
As though he had been waiting.
As though he had known Yuan Hong would eventually get there, even if the entire police force, the military, and half of Beijing had reached the conclusion first.
“Ah.”
Yuan Hong narrowed his eyes.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
Zhao Shaoshang considered it.
“Do you want the answer that won't humiliate you, or the truthful one?”
Yuan Hong was silent.
Zhao Shaoshang sighed.
“The truthful one. I understand.”
He set his fan aside.
“For a very, very long time...” he finally answered softly.
Yuan Hong closed his eyes and let out a quiet, irritated sigh.
“Yang Dezhi knew before I did,” Yuan Hong finally said.
“Yes,” Shaoshang agreed obediently.
“My men knew.”
“Yes.”
“The military.”
“Yes.”
“My father.”
“A little later, but yes.”
Yuan Hong opened his eyes.
“You too.”
“Yuan Hong, we all knew.”
“Not everyone,” Yuan Hong defended himself desperately.
Zhao Shaoshang tilted his head.
Yuan Hong looked at him darkly.
“I didn't know.”
Shaoshang fought with himself for a moment.
He lost.
He burst out laughing.
Yuan Hong stared at him without a trace of amusement.
“This isn't funny.”
“It is.”
“Shaoshang.”
“I'm sorry.”
He did not sound sorry.
“You wore that outfit on purpose.”
“Yes.”
“You fixed my collar on purpose.”
“Yes.”
“That officer.”
Zhao Shaoshang put on an expression of perfect innocence, but Yuan Hong knew him far too well to fall for it.
“What officer?” Shaoshang asked innocently, blinking at him.
Yuan Hong narrowed his eyes.
“You were flirting with him,” he accused.
“Perhaps.”
“On purpose.”
“Perhaps.”
“Shaoshang.”
“Fine. Yes,” he finally confessed.
Yuan Hong stood up.
Shaoshang was still smiling.
“What are you doing?”
Yuan Hong walked around the desk.
Zhao Shaoshang's smile weakened slightly.
“Yuan Hong?”
Yuan Hong stopped in front of him.
For thirteen days, he had been the laughingstock of his own division.
For thirteen days, his father had looked at him like a man solving the simplest riddle in the world with exceptional slowness.
For thirteen days, Zhao Shaoshang had knowingly, shamelessly, and with enormous enjoyment made the situation worse.
Yuan Hong considered himself a patient man.
Every man's patience had limits.
He leaned down.
Zhao Shaoshang stopped laughing.
“Since you knew,” Yuan Hong said quietly, “you could have told me.”
Shaoshang's gaze dropped to his mouth, then returned to his eyes.
“I could have.”
“Why didn't you?”
This time, Shaoshang's smile was much smaller, gentler, almost tender.
More genuine.
“It would have ruined the fun. I wanted you to figure it out yourself. You are, after all, a very intelligent man.”
Something in Yuan Hong softened.
Unfortunately, only for a moment.
“And in the meantime, you had a wonderful time,” he accused Shaoshang.
“A very wonderful time,” Young Master Zhao agreed at once.
“I noticed.”
“So what do we do now?” Shaoshang asked after a moment.
Yuan Hong looked at him.
Shaoshang lifted his chin.
He did not step back.
Of course he did not.
Yuan Hong sighed.
“Now I have to do something about the fact that I'm in love with you.”
Zhao Shaoshang smiled.
“That sounds serious.”
“It is serious.”
“Do you have a plan, Captain Yuan?”
Yuan Hong leaned a little closer.
“I do.”
And he kissed him.
+++
The next morning, Yang Dezhi entered Yuan Hong's office at eight seventeen.
He stopped in the doorway.
Yuan Hong was sitting behind his desk.
Zhao Shaoshang was sitting on the desk.
Very close to Yuan Hong.
Definitely too close for anyone to keep pretending the situation was still unclear.
Shaoshang was wearing a light blue outfit.
Yuan Hong looked like a man who had not slept nearly enough.
Yang Dezhi looked at one of them.
Then at the other.
“Captain.”
“Yang Dezhi.”
“Young Master Zhao.”
“Yang Dezhi.”
Silence.
Yang Dezhi slowly placed the report on the desk.
He turned around.
“Yang Dezhi.”
He stopped by the door.
“Yes, Captain?”
“If I hear that anyone in the division was taking bets...”
“Naturally, Captain,” Yang Dezhi agreed before Yuan Hong could actually finish the sentence.
“...there will be consequences.”
“Of course.”
Yang Dezhi turned toward the door. He had almost made it out of the office; he could already feel fresh air on his face, could almost smell freedom.
Zhao Shaoshang spoke behind him.
“Yang Dezhi.”
He did not turn around.
“Yes?”
“Did you win?”
Yang Dezhi closed his eyes.
Yuan Hong said very slowly:
“What bets?”
Yang Dezhi left in a hurry.
He shut the door.
He looked at the dozen or so policemen gathered far too close to the office.
“Thirteen days.”
A groan went up.
Someone swore.
Someone else started pulling out money.
The policeman who had bet on ten days looked personally betrayed by the captain.
“Three days. I was only off by three days.”
“Chen?”
“Yes?”
“You lost.”
“Impossible. I had thirty.”
“You were too optimistic.”
“Optimistic?!”
The office door opened.
Everyone froze.
Yuan Hong stood in the doorway.
He looked at the money.
He looked at the policemen.
He looked at Yang Dezhi.
Zhao Shaoshang appeared over his shoulder, immediately understood the situation, and started laughing.
Yuan Hong closed his eyes.
Somewhere far away, probably at the military camp, the Marshal was just then collecting his winnings.
Yuan Hong did not know that yet.
And for the sake of peaceful relations throughout the entire city, it would be better if he never found out.