Work Text:
Yuan Hong had faced armed smugglers, corrupt officials, murderers who smiled while lying to his face, and his own father across a table on more occasions than any reasonable man should have been expected to survive with his patience intact.
None of those experiences had prepared him for Zhao Shaoshang looking him slowly up and down, clicking his fan shut against his palm, and saying, with the grave disappointment of a man who had just discovered that civilization itself was collapsing before his eyes, "You cannot wear that."
Yuan Hong looked down.
There was nothing wrong with what he was wearing.
This was not an opinion. It was a fact.
His shirt was clean. His trousers were pressed. His coat was dark, practical, properly fitted, and entirely appropriate for a police captain who had spent most of the morning reviewing reports and intended to spend the evening meeting men whose involvement in illegal trade had not yet been proven but whose willingness to lie certainly had. His boots had been polished that morning. His collar was straight. There was not a single stain, loose thread, missing button, or other visible defect that might have justified the expression currently occupying Zhao Shaoshang’s face.
Yuan Hong therefore lifted his eyes again and said, reasonably, "I can."
"You absolutely cannot."
"I am currently wearing it."
"That is not what I meant."
"Then you should say what you mean."
Zhao Shaoshang stared at him.
Yuan Hong stared back.
Somewhere behind them, Yang Dezhi made the subtle sound of a man who had suddenly remembered an urgent obligation in another part of the police station and began moving toward the door.
Zhao Shaoshang’s eyes narrowed.
"Yang Dezhi."
Yang Dezhi stopped.
"Yes, Young Master Zhao?"
"Does Captain Yuan look presentable enough to attend a private meeting with Japanese businessmen tonight?"
There were questions to which an honest answer was dangerous, questions to which a dishonest answer was dangerous, and then there were questions asked by Zhao Shaoshang while Yuan Hong stood within hearing distance. Yang Dezhi had worked with them long enough to recognize the third category as by far the worst.
He looked at Yuan Hong.
He looked at Zhao Shaoshang.
He looked once more toward the door.
"I believe Captain Yuan always looks very... professional."
Zhao Shaoshang opened his fan.
Yuan Hong watched Yang Dezhi leave the room with considerably more speed than dignity.
"Coward," Zhao Shaoshang muttered.
"He gave you an answer."
"He fled."
"He had work."
"He fled because he knows I am right."
"He fled because you asked him to comment on his superior’s clothing."
"Because your clothing is terrible."
Yuan Hong lowered his gaze to himself again, although he was beginning to suspect that no amount of inspection would reveal whatever catastrophic failure Zhao Shaoshang had apparently identified.
Zhao Shaoshang was already approaching him.
Yuan Hong raised his head.
This, Yuan Hong had learned, was usually the moment at which a disagreement stopped belonging entirely to the realm of words. Zhao Shaoshang had very little respect for personal space when convinced of his own righteousness, and at present he appeared exceptionally righteous. He stopped directly in front of Yuan Hong, caught one lapel between two fingers, frowned at it as though it had personally insulted the Zhao family, then smoothed the fabric down over Yuan Hong’s chest.
Yuan Hong went very still.
It was an entirely unnecessary reaction.
Zhao Shaoshang touched him often.
Zhao Shaoshang touched everyone often.
No, that was not entirely accurate. Zhao Shaoshang gestured at everyone often. He poked Yang Dezhi with his fan. He caught Zhao Waner by the sleeve when excited. He occasionally seized servants by the shoulders when demanding information and once, during an argument with Zhao Chengru, had become so animated that he had nearly knocked over a vase while attempting to demonstrate the approximate dimensions of a shipping crate.
This was different only because—
There was no reason for it to be different.
Yuan Hong looked at the top of Zhao Shaoshang’s head and waited.
"We are not going there as police officers," Zhao Shaoshang said, apparently unaware that his hand remained resting against Yuan Hong’s chest. "We are going because Kobayashi agreed to speak with me privately about the collection.”
"I know."
"And the men attending will be wealthy."
"I know."
"They will be dressed accordingly."
"I know."
"And you look like you are about to arrest them."
"I may arrest them."
"Later."
Zhao Shaoshang finally removed his hand.
Yuan Hong experienced absolutely no reaction to this.
None.
"Tonight," Zhao Shaoshang continued, "you are supposed to look like someone who belongs beside me."
There were several possible responses.
The most sensible was that Yuan Hong had accompanied Zhao Shaoshang into wealthy homes, private clubs, restaurants, auction houses, government residences, and once an extraordinarily unpleasant garden party where three separate women had attempted to introduce their daughters to him before Zhao Shaoshang had somehow appeared at his elbow and remained there for the rest of the afternoon. Yuan Hong knew how to behave among wealthy people. He knew how to dress for formal occasions. He had studied abroad. He had attended military dinners. He did not require instruction.
Unfortunately, his mind had stopped at beside me.
Zhao Shaoshang snapped his fan open again.
"Something presentable," he ordered. "Elegant. Expensive enough that no one questions why you are with me, but not so fashionable that you look ridiculous. You are too serious for fashionable."
Yuan Hong frowned.
"That sounded insulting."
"It was practical."
"You called me serious."
"You are serious."
"You said it as though it were a physical defect."
"Only when buying clothes."
Yuan Hong considered arguing.
Then he looked at Zhao Shaoshang.
Zhao Shaoshang had dressed for the meeting already. His cheongsam was burgundy—simple enough to stand out against the darker attire favored by most businessmen, yet balanced by the deep black of his vest—and the outfit was accented with gold embellishments that, Yuan Hong suspected, cost more than an ordinary police officer earned in several months. Everything fit perfectly. Of course it did. Zhao Shaoshang could spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical handkerchiefs and somehow emerge from the process convinced that the choice had been a matter of national importance.
Yuan Hong looked away.
"Fine."
Zhao Shaoshang blinked. Apparently he had prepared several additional arguments and was disappointed to discover they would not be necessary.
"Fine?"
"I will buy something."
"Today."
"The meeting is tonight."
"I am making sure."
"I understood that."
"Something elegant."
"Yes."
"Not another black coat."
Yuan Hong paused.
Zhao Shaoshang pointed his fan at him.
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking about buying another black coat."
"I was not."
"You were."
"You cannot know what I am thinking."
"I've known you long enough. Unfortunately, I often know exactly what you are thinking."
That statement should not have remained with Yuan Hong for the entire walk to the clothing shop.
It did anyway.
+++
The shop Zhao Shaoshang recommended occupied the ground floor of a building on one of the more fashionable commercial streets, its windows displaying suits arranged on mannequins whose posture Yuan Hong found unnecessarily arrogant. The establishment was quiet, expensive, and decorated with the kind of calculated restraint intended to inform customers that anyone who needed to ask the price probably could not afford it.
Yuan Hong nearly turned around.
Not because he was intimidated by the prices.
He simply disliked shopping.
There was a difference.
He could have gone somewhere else. Zhao Shaoshang had given him the name because, according to him, "they understand tailoring and won't let you leave looking like someone's elderly uncle," but Yuan Hong was perfectly capable of choosing a suit without professional intervention.
He stood outside for another five seconds.
Then he remembered Zhao Shaoshang saying you are supposed to look like someone who belongs beside me.
Yuan Hong entered.
A bell sounded softly above the door.
The man behind the counter looked up, assessed Yuan Hong in one quick sweep, and smiled.
"Good afternoon, sir."
"I need a suit."
The man’s smile did not change, but something in his expression suggested that Yuan Hong had just announced a medical emergency.
"Certainly. For a particular occasion?"
"A meeting."
"Business?"
"Partly."
The man waited.
Yuan Hong waited.
Apparently more information was required.
"It is important," Yuan Hong added.
"Of course."
The salesman stepped around the counter. He was perhaps in his fifties, impeccably dressed, with silver beginning to appear at his temples and the serene confidence of someone who had spent several decades convincing wealthy men that they required more expensive trousers.
"How formal is the occasion?"
"Formal."
"Evening?"
"Yes."
"Restaurant? Private residence? Club?"
Yuan Hong hesitated.
"Private dining room."
"Excellent. And the company?"
"Japanese businessmen."
The salesman nodded thoughtfully and walked toward several racks.
Yuan Hong followed.
"And someone else?"
Yuan Hong stopped.
The salesman looked back.
"You said partly business."
There was nothing suspicious about the question.
Yuan Hong nevertheless felt as though he had stepped into an interrogation without noticing when it began.
"I am accompanying someone."
"Ah."
The single syllable contained entirely too much understanding.
Yuan Hong frowned.
The salesman’s expression became professionally neutral again. "And this person is important to you?"
Yuan Hong should have said that Zhao Shaoshang was a consultant assisting an ongoing police investigation.
He should have explained that Zhao Shaoshang had arranged the meeting because his family name, education, reputation among collectors, and knowledge of antiques made him uniquely suited to approach the Japanese businessmen without raising suspicion.
He should have said that they were colleagues.
Friends, perhaps.
Partners in investigation.
Any of those descriptions would have been both accurate and useful.
Instead, Yuan Hong remembered a hand smoothing down his lapel and a voice saying ‘beside me’.
"Yes."
The salesman smiled.
Not the professional smile from before.
A different smile.
"Oh," he said.
Yuan Hong immediately disliked that oh.
"What?"
"Nothing, sir."
"It did not sound like nothing."
"I merely understand the situation better now."
Yuan Hong was suddenly quite certain that he did not.
The salesman pulled out a dark blue suit and held it against Yuan Hong’s shoulders, studying him critically.
"First time meeting the family?"
Yuan Hong stared at him.
The salesman stared back.
Several seconds passed.
There were moments in life when correcting a misunderstanding was easy. One simply spoke. One provided the missing information. The problem disappeared.
There were other moments when correcting a misunderstanding required explaining why the misunderstanding had occurred in the first place.
Yuan Hong considered the sentence No, I am not meeting the family of someone important to me; I am attending a covert meeting with the person important to me, whose father already knows me and does not particularly like how much time we spend together.
He rejected it immediately.
"No," he said.
The salesman nodded.
"You've met them before."
Yuan Hong opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Technically, yes.
He had met Zhao Chengru.
Many times.
Their first few encounters had not been pleasant. Their later encounters had only occasionally been pleasant. Zhao Chengru regarded Yuan Hong with the suspicious tolerance of a father who had noticed that his only son disappeared at inconvenient hours whenever Yuan Hong appeared and had apparently decided this was somehow Yuan Hong’s fault.
Zhao Waner, meanwhile, had once told Yuan Hong over tea that if Shaoshang ever came home heartbroken because of him, she would make certain the police never found his body.
She had smiled while saying it.
Yuan Hong had believed her.
"Yes."
"I see."
The salesman’s smile widened.
Yuan Hong felt the situation moving beyond his control.
He did not know how.
"You'll want something reassuring, then," the man said.
"Reassuring."
"Dependable. Respectable. Something that says you have serious intentions."
Yuan Hong stared at the suit.
"I have serious intentions."
The salesman looked delighted.
Yuan Hong realized his mistake one second too late.
"Excellent. That helps enormously."
"Regarding the meeting."
"Naturally."
Yuan Hong narrowed his eyes.
The salesman had already moved on.
"Dark blue rather than black. Black can look severe on you."
"I usually wear black."
"I can tell."
Yuan Hong decided not to ask what that meant.
The first suit was dark blue, double-breasted, beautifully cut, and uncomfortable only because Yuan Hong could hear Zhao Shaoshang’s voice in his head saying that the lapels made him look like a banker.
He stepped out of the fitting room.
The salesman considered him.
"No."
Yuan Hong looked at himself in the mirror.
"It fits."
"It does."
"The fabric is good."
"Very."
"The color is appropriate."
"Yes."
"Then why no?"
"You look like you're about to ask for permission to marry into a banking family."
Yuan Hong turned his head slowly.
The salesman remained perfectly serious.
"I thought that was the objective."
"No, no. Serious intentions, yes. Desperation, no."
"I am not desperate."
"Exactly."
Yuan Hong could not determine whether he was still discussing clothing.
He went back behind the curtain.
The second suit was charcoal grey.
The salesman rejected it because Yuan Hong looked "too intimidating."
The third was brown.
Yuan Hong rejected it before leaving the fitting room.
The fourth involved a patterned waistcoat.
"No."
"You haven't looked in the mirror yet."
"No."
"Your companion may like it."
"No."
"How do you know?"
Yuan Hong looked down at the waistcoat.
He imagined Zhao Shaoshang seeing him in it.
He imagined the fan stopping halfway open.
He imagined the slow, delighted smile.
He imagined hearing about the waistcoat every day for the next six months.
"No."
The salesman sighed.
"You are difficult."
"I came here for one suit."
"Everyone comes here for one suit."
"Then why have I tried four?"
"Because you haven't found the right one."
"I had the right one before."
"The one you arrived in?"
"Yes."
The salesman looked at his coat.
Then at Yuan Hong.
"No."
Yuan Hong began to understand why Zhao Shaoshang liked this establishment.
He also began to suspect that recommending it had been an act of revenge for some offense Yuan Hong had not realized he committed.
The fifth suit was a deep navy, single-breasted and simple enough that Yuan Hong did not immediately object. The jacket followed the line of his shoulders without exaggerating them, the trousers sat cleanly, and the white shirt underneath was crisp without appearing ceremonial.
Yuan Hong looked at himself.
Better.
Acceptable.
Possibly even—
"You like this one."
"It is practical."
"That was not what I said."
"It fits."
"So did the first."
Yuan Hong adjusted one cuff.
The salesman watched him in the mirror.
Then, with the same dangerous casualness he had used earlier, asked, "What does your companion usually like?"
Yuan Hong’s hand stopped.
"Regarding clothes."
"Yes."
That should have been simple.
It was not.
Zhao Shaoshang liked beautiful things.
He liked expensive fabrics, unusual patterns, carefully matched colors, imported accessories, silk that caught light properly, shoes polished until they reflected the room, cufflinks selected according to occasion, and hats Yuan Hong considered ridiculous until Zhao Shaoshang wore them and somehow made everyone else appear underdressed.
But that was not what the salesman had asked.
What did Zhao Shaoshang like on him?
Yuan Hong thought.
Unfortunately, he actually knew.
"Dark colors."
The salesman nodded.
"Simple cuts."
Another nod.
"Nothing too decorative."
"Traditional taste."
"No."
Yuan Hong said it too quickly.
The salesman raised an eyebrow.
Yuan Hong looked back at the mirror.
"Not traditional," he corrected. "Quite the opposite."
"Fashionable?"
"Very."
"Then why simple?"
Yuan Hong could have stopped.
He should have stopped.
Instead he said, "Because anything too elaborate would be compared to what they're wearing."
The salesman’s eyebrows rose.
Yuan Hong continued before good judgment could intervene.
"They would win."
There was silence.
Then the salesman laughed.
Not loudly. Not mockingly. It was the warm, knowing laugh of a man who had just been handed confirmation of something he already believed.
"You are very fond of this person."
Yuan Hong froze.
The room seemed suddenly smaller.
There were perhaps twenty possible answers.
He found none of them.
The salesman rescued him.
"Don't worry. Most men who come in here before meeting someone's family spend the entire fitting talking about themselves. Whether they look wealthy enough. Successful enough. Impressive enough. You've spent most of this fitting thinking about what this person would like."
"I have not."
The denial emerged automatically.
The salesman looked at him.
Yuan Hong looked back.
"Of course."
"I haven't."
"Naturally."
"I answered your questions."
"Very thoroughly."
Yuan Hong decided silence was safer.
It was not.
The salesman walked around him, adjusted the back of the jacket, then stepped away.
"Older sister?"
Yuan Hong blinked.
"What?"
"The person you're seeing."
Yuan Hong stared.
The salesman gestured vaguely. "You said you've already met the family. You mentioned someone fashionable, strong-willed, accustomed to expensive things. I assumed—"
"I did not mention an older sister."
"No, but you made a face when I said family."
"I did not."
"You did."
Yuan Hong suddenly understood something horrifying.
The man thought he was talking about Zhao Waner.
This was, objectively, absurd.
It was also, Yuan Hong realized after a moment of stunned consideration, remarkably convenient.
Zhao Waner was fashionable. Zhao Waner was strong-willed. Zhao Waner was accustomed to expensive things. Zhao Waner was part of the family. Most importantly, allowing the salesman to continue believing this meant Yuan Hong did not have to explain that every answer he had given had actually been about Zhao Shaoshang.
He did not have to explain why he knew Zhao Shaoshang preferred him in dark colors.
He did not have to explain why he knew Zhao Shaoshang disliked overly decorative clothing on him.
He did not have to explain why the thought of appearing beside Zhao Shaoshang tonight had somehow become important enough that he had already tried on five suits instead of leaving after the first.
This was an excellent solution.
Yuan Hong said nothing.
The salesman smiled as though silence were confirmation.
"That explains it."
Yuan Hong immediately discovered a problem with his excellent solution.
"What explains what?"
"The nerves."
"I am not nervous."
"Of course."
"Stop saying that."
The salesman suppressed another smile.
Yuan Hong looked at himself in the mirror and decided he hated shopping.
"Do you like this suit or not?"
"I do. But we're not finished."
"We are."
"We need a tie."
"I own ties."
"Do you own one that matches this suit?"
"Yes."
"What color?"
Yuan Hong thought.
The salesman watched him.
Yuan Hong realized he could not remember.
"...Dark."
"Remarkable."
"What?"
"Nothing."
The salesman disappeared toward another display.
Yuan Hong exhaled slowly.
He had interrogated murder suspects with less difficulty.
A moment later the salesman returned carrying six ties.
Yuan Hong looked at them.
"No."
"You haven't seen them."
"I can see them."
"Your companion will see them too."
Yuan Hong hated that this worked.
Ten minutes later, there were three ties laid across the counter.
One was burgundy.
One was dark green.
One was blue.
The salesman pointed to the blue.
"Warm. Confident."
Yuan Hong looked at it.
Zhao Shaoshang would say it made him look less severe.
The green.
"Distinctive without being excessive."
Yuan Hong looked away from it immediately.
The burgundy.
Zhao Shaoshang owned a waistcoat almost exactly that color.
"That one."
"You chose quickly."
"It's a tie."
The salesman studied him.
Then he looked at the green one.
Then back at Yuan Hong.
"Interesting."
Yuan Hong felt threatened.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Saying nothing as though it means something."
The salesman’s mouth twitched.
Yuan Hong bought the burgundy tie.
He also bought the green one.
He had no explanation for this.
The salesman wisely did not request one.
By the time the alterations were marked, Yuan Hong had spent nearly an hour in the shop, tried six jackets, four shirts, three pairs of trousers, two waistcoats, and enough ties to supply half the police station. His patience had been reduced to a thin and increasingly fragile thread.
The salesman, meanwhile, appeared energized.
"So," he said while writing out the receipt, "you have met the father."
Yuan Hong closed his eyes briefly.
"Yes."
"Does he approve?"
"No."
The answer came so quickly that the salesman stopped writing.
Yuan Hong stared at the counter.
The salesman slowly looked up.
"Ah."
"It is not—"
Yuan Hong stopped.
Not what?
Not what you think?
Then what exactly did the man think?
More importantly, what exactly was the truth?
Zhao Chengru did not disapprove of Yuan Hong as a potential partner for Zhao Waner because Zhao Waner had never been relevant to the situation.
Zhao Chengru did, however, frequently disapprove of Yuan Hong's presence around Zhao Shaoshang.
He disapproved when Shaoshang joined dangerous investigations.
He disapproved when Shaoshang returned home late.
He disapproved when Shaoshang was injured.
He disapproved when Yuan Hong appeared at the Zhao residence asking to speak with Shaoshang and Shaoshang abandoned dinner halfway through the meal.
He had once looked at Yuan Hong across the Zhao family drawing room with an expression that communicated, with astonishing clarity, Why is my son like this whenever you are nearby?
Yuan Hong had not possessed an answer then.
He was not entirely certain he possessed one now.
"He worries," Yuan Hong said finally.
The salesman’s expression softened.
"About his child."
"Yes."
"That is normal."
Yuan Hong looked down.
"Shaoshang gets involved in things that are dangerous."
Silence.
Yuan Hong realized what he had said.
The salesman blinked.
Yuan Hong blinked back.
"Shaoshang?"
"The younger brother."
The explanation arrived instantly.
Yuan Hong seized it.
"Yes."
"Ah."
"He's involved in my work."
"I see."
"He takes unnecessary risks."
"Does he?"
"Constantly."
Yuan Hong could hear himself beginning and, for reasons he could not understand, could not stop.
"He has no training, but that has never prevented him from entering dangerous places. He thinks being able to talk his way out of most situations means he can talk his way out of all of them. He doesn't listen when told to stay behind."
The salesman had stopped writing again.
"He follows suspects alone. He approaches armed men. Once he climbed through a window because the front door was locked."
"Was there a reason?"
"He said the room contained evidence."
"Did it?"
"Yes."
The salesman nodded gravely.
"Then I can understand the temptation."
"Do not encourage him."
"I've never had a chance."
"That has not stopped other people."
The salesman was smiling again.
Yuan Hong frowned.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're doing it again."
"I was merely thinking that you speak about the younger brother considerably more than the older sister."
Yuan Hong became completely motionless.
The salesman looked down at the receipt.
Yuan Hong said nothing.
There was nothing to say.
Anything he said would make it worse.
The salesman, perhaps sensing that he had finally reached the outer boundary of what even his considerable curiosity should attempt, cleared his throat and returned to the safer subject of tailoring.
"The alterations will be ready in two hours."
"Good."
"And Captain?"
Yuan Hong looked at him.
The salesman smiled.
"Take the green tie too."
Yuan Hong looked at the green tie already lying beside his purchases.
"I am."
"Excellent."
Neither of them mentioned why.
+++
Two hours later, Yuan Hong stood outside the restaurant and wondered whether it was too late to return home, change back into his ordinary clothes, and claim the shop had burned down.
It would be an obvious lie.
Zhao Shaoshang would investigate.
He would probably discover the truth within an hour.
Then Yuan Hong would have to explain not only why he had refused to wear the suit but why he had considered arson a preferable story.
No.
He would survive this.
It was clothing.
Nothing more.
The suit was dark navy, the shirt white, the cut traditional enough to satisfy Yuan Hong’s preference for simplicity while fitted closely enough that even he had been forced to admit the tailor knew what he was doing. The shoes were his own. The watch was his own.
The tie was burgundy.
He had intended to wear the green one.
He had held both in his hands for nearly a minute.
Then he had remembered Zhao Shaoshang’s waistcoat.
This meant nothing.
Colors were colors.
Burgundy was common.
Thousands of people wore burgundy.
Yuan Hong entered the restaurant.
Zhao Shaoshang was waiting in the private reception area.
He turned at the sound of footsteps.
And stopped.
That alone made the entire miserable afternoon worthwhile.
Zhao Shaoshang, who always had something to say, said nothing.
His fan remained half-open in his hand.
His eyes moved from Yuan Hong’s face to his shoulders, down the front of the jacket, lower, then back up again with such undisguised attention that Yuan Hong suddenly became acutely conscious of every measurement the salesman had taken.
He stopped several steps away.
"And?"
Zhao Shaoshang continued staring.
Yuan Hong waited.
Slowly, Zhao Shaoshang closed his fan.
"You listened to me."
"I often listen to you."
"No, you hear me. That is different."
Yuan Hong decided not to dignify this with a response.
Zhao Shaoshang approached.
His expression had changed into something Yuan Hong knew far too well: delight restrained only by the desperate attempt to appear sophisticated.
"You bought a new suit."
"That was the instruction."
"And a new shirt."
"It came with the suit."
"It did not."
"No."
"And—"
Zhao Shaoshang stopped directly in front of him. His eyes dropped to the tie.
Yuan Hong immediately regretted every decision he had made since entering the shop.
Zhao Shaoshang looked down at himself.
Then back at Yuan Hong.
Then down again.
His waistcoat was perfectly burgundy.
Not precisely the same shade.
Close enough.
A smile began at one corner of his mouth.
"No."
Yuan Hong said it before Zhao Shaoshang had spoken.
The smile widened.
"I haven't said anything."
"You were about to."
"You cannot know what I am thinking."
Yuan Hong stared at him.
For one glorious second, Zhao Shaoshang appeared to remember saying exactly the same thing to Yuan Hong several hours earlier.
Then he recovered.
"We match."
"We do not."
"We do."
"The colors are different."
"They are complementary."
"They are burgundy."
"Exactly."
"That does not mean anything."
Zhao Shaoshang looked delighted.
Yuan Hong hated that expression.
Mostly because he liked it far too much.
"You chose a burgundy tie."
"I bought a tie."
"You own ties."
"The salesman said this one suited the outfit."
"A salesman."
"Yes."
"Chose this exact burgundy tie."
"Yes."
"Without knowing what I would be wearing."
Yuan Hong paused.
Zhao Shaoshang’s eyes narrowed with predatory happiness.
"Captain Yuan."
"Don't."
"Did you tell the salesman about me?"
"No."
The answer was technically true.
Mostly.
Zhao Shaoshang tilted his head.
Yuan Hong maintained eye contact.
He would not break under interrogation.
Certainly not this interrogation.
"What did you tell him?"
"Nothing relevant."
"Yuan Hong."
"We discussed clothing."
"For an hour?"
Yuan Hong’s silence betrayed him.
Zhao Shaoshang’s mouth fell open.
"You were there for an hour?"
"There were alterations."
"How many things did you try?"
"Enough."
"How many?"
"It is irrelevant."
"How many?"
Yuan Hong began walking toward the private dining room.
Zhao Shaoshang followed instantly.
"Yuan Hong."
"The guests will arrive soon."
"How many suits?"
"We should review the plan."
"Five?"
Silence.
"Six?"
Yuan Hong continued walking.
Zhao Shaoshang made a strangled noise of delight.
"Six?"
"Keep your voice down."
"You tried six suits?"
"There were also jackets."
Zhao Shaoshang stopped walking.
Yuan Hong realized his mistake.
He stopped too.
Very slowly, Zhao Shaoshang said, "There were also jackets?"
Yuan Hong looked toward the dining room.
No rescue arrived.
"How many?"
"I don't remember."
"You remember everything."
"Not clothing."
"You remember what I wore when we met Marschal three months ago."
"Because you complained about the wine."
"That has nothing to do with my clothes."
"You spilled the wine on your sleeve."
"Because your father annoyed me."
"Exactly."
Zhao Shaoshang stared at him.
Yuan Hong stared back.
Then Zhao Shaoshang’s expression softened unexpectedly.
Not into laughter.
Not into triumph.
Something quieter.
His gaze dropped again to the suit, lingering on the clean line of the jacket, then returned to Yuan Hong’s face.
"You really did it because I asked."
Yuan Hong felt the familiar instinct to retreat behind practicality.
The meeting required it.
Their cover would be stronger.
The Japanese businessmen expected wealthy company.
The clothing was an operational necessity.
Every explanation was true.
None of them was the answer Zhao Shaoshang was asking for.
So Yuan Hong simply said, "Yes."
Zhao Shaoshang smiled.
It was smaller than before.
Warmer.
Then, because he was Zhao Shaoshang and apparently incapable of allowing sincerity to survive unattended for more than five consecutive seconds, he reached up and adjusted Yuan Hong’s tie.
"You look very handsome."
Yuan Hong’s entire body forgot how to behave.
He hoped this was not visible.
It was probably visible.
Zhao Shaoshang’s smile suggested it was extremely visible.
"The suit is acceptable," Yuan Hong said.
"Handsome."
"Presentable."
"Very handsome."
"The guests are coming."
"Extremely handsome."
"Shaoshang."
"Almost offensively handsome."
Yuan Hong caught his wrist.
That was a mistake.
Zhao Shaoshang went quiet.
His hand was still raised between them, fingers inches from Yuan Hong’s collar, Yuan Hong’s hand closed around his wrist. Neither moved.
For a moment, the restaurant disappeared around the edges.
Then voices sounded beyond the corridor.
Yuan Hong released him.
Zhao Shaoshang cleared his throat and looked away.
"Anyway," he said, opening his fan with considerably more force than necessary, "we match."
"We do not."
"We absolutely do."
"It was accidental."
"Of course."
Yuan Hong narrowed his eyes.
Zhao Shaoshang glanced at him over the edge of his fan.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"The salesman kept saying that."
"Saying what?"
"'Of course.'"
"About what?"
Yuan Hong should have stopped there.
He knew this.
He understood cause and effect.
He understood danger.
He understood that Zhao Shaoshang possessed a mind designed specifically to seize one loose thread and pull until an entire secret unraveled.
Still, perhaps because the afternoon had already exhausted his judgment, Yuan Hong said, "He thought I was meeting someone's family."
There was a pause.
Zhao Shaoshang lowered his fan.
"What?"
"He misunderstood why I needed the suit."
"And you corrected him."
Yuan Hong said nothing.
Zhao Shaoshang stared.
"You corrected him?"
Silence.
"Yuan Hong."
"It was unnecessary."
Zhao Shaoshang’s eyes became enormous.
"You let a complete stranger believe you were dressing up to meet the family of someone you were courting?"
"He made an assumption."
"And you did not correct it."
"It would have required a longer explanation."
"How much longer?"
"Considerably."
Zhao Shaoshang was beginning to smile again.
Yuan Hong disliked the direction of this conversation.
"What did you tell him?"
"Very little."
"Did you tell him you had met the family?"
"He asked."
"And?"
"I answered."
"What did you say?"
"Yes."
Zhao Shaoshang made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.
"And?"
"He asked whether the father approved."
This time Zhao Shaoshang actually covered his mouth with his fan.
Yuan Hong could see his shoulders shaking.
"It is not funny."
"What did you say?"
Yuan Hong remained silent.
Zhao Shaoshang lowered the fan just enough to reveal a grin.
"What did you say?"
"No."
Zhao Shaoshang folded in half.
Yuan Hong watched him laugh with the exhausted patience of a man observing the consequences of his own poor decisions.
"It was accurate."
"Accurate?"
"Your father does not approve of me."
"Because you keep taking me to murder scenes!"
"I do not take you. You appear."
"Details."
"You climb through windows."
"There was evidence."
"That is what I told him."
Zhao Shaoshang stopped laughing.
Yuan Hong stopped breathing.
Slowly, Zhao Shaoshang straightened.
"You told him about me."
"No."
"You just said—"
"He thought—"
Yuan Hong stopped.
There was no way through this.
Not anymore.
Zhao Shaoshang stared at him with the terrible concentration he usually reserved for evidence that had finally revealed the shape of an entire case.
"He thought you were courting Waner," Zhao Shaoshang said.
Yuan Hong did not answer.
The fan snapped shut.
"He thought you were courting Waner!"
"Lower your voice."
"And you were answering questions about me?"
"Not intentionally."
"What did you say?"
"Shaoshang."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing."
"What did you say about my clothes?"
Yuan Hong stared at him.
Zhao Shaoshang’s grin returned.
"Oh, you definitely said something about my clothes."
"The guests are coming."
"What did you say about me?"
"Shaoshang."
"Did you tell him I'm handsome?"
"No."
"Beautiful?"
"No."
"Fashionable?"
Yuan Hong said nothing.
Zhao Shaoshang pointed his fan at him.
"You did."
"I answered a question."
"What question?"
"What you like."
Zhao Shaoshang froze.
Yuan Hong wished, with profound sincerity, that Kobayashi would arrive immediately.
Or a murderer.
A murderer would be easier.
"What I like," Zhao Shaoshang repeated.
"Regarding clothes."
"And you knew."
"It is difficult not to know. You discuss clothing constantly."
"What do I like?"
"This conversation is over."
"What do I like on you?"
Yuan Hong walked away.
Zhao Shaoshang followed.
"Dark colors?"
Silence.
"Simple cuts?"
Silence.
"Oh, you know."
"Shaoshang."
"You know what I like you wearing."
"We have work."
"You bought the burgundy tie."
"It matched the suit."
"It matches me."
"It does not."
"It does."
"It was recommended."
"After you spent an hour telling a stranger about me."
"I did not spend an hour talking about you."
"Half an hour?"
"No."
"Twenty minutes?"
"No."
"Ten?"
Yuan Hong reached the door to the private dining room.
Zhao Shaoshang stepped beside him.
Their shoulders nearly touched.
For once, he did not continue teasing immediately.
Instead he looked at their reflection in the polished glass of the door.
Dark navy beside deep burgundy.
His waistcoat.
Yuan Hong’s tie.
Not identical.
Close enough.
Zhao Shaoshang smiled at the reflection.
"We really do match."
Yuan Hong looked too.
He could have argued.
He should have argued.
Instead he adjusted one cuff and said, "It is not unpleasant."
Zhao Shaoshang turned his head.
Yuan Hong immediately knew he had made another mistake.
"Not unpleasant?"
"Do not start."
"Captain Yuan, are you saying you like matching with me?"
"No."
"You just said—"
"I said the colors are not unpleasant together."
"Because we match."
"Because they are complementary."
"That's what I said."
"You said we match."
"Same thing."
"It is not."
"It is."
The sound of approaching footsteps finally reached them.
Zhao Shaoshang straightened. In an instant, the teasing young master disappeared behind the polished ease of the Minister of Education’s son: charming, wealthy, confident, perfectly at home in rooms where everyone was measuring everyone else’s value.
Yuan Hong watched the transformation.
Then Zhao Shaoshang glanced sideways at him.
The grin returned for only a second.
"By the way."
"What?"
"You should go back to that shop."
Yuan Hong’s expression hardened.
"Never."
"I haven't even said why."
"I know why."
"I need to thank the salesman."
"No."
"For the suit."
"No."
"For the tie."
"No."
"For helping you realize exactly what I like."
"Absolutely not."
Zhao Shaoshang laughed softly.
The doors opened.
Yuan Hong stepped forward beside him, shoulders straight, expression calm, every inch the composed and respectable man the salesman had attempted to create.
Zhao Shaoshang followed.
Their sleeves brushed.
Yuan Hong did not move away.
Neither did Zhao Shaoshang.
And when Kobayashi’s gaze flicked over them, taking in Zhao Shaoshang’s expensive burgundy cheongsam and his waistcoat, Yuan Hong’s perfectly fitted navy suit, and the burgundy tie that looked suspiciously deliberate beside it, Zhao Shaoshang’s smile became so unbearably pleased that Yuan Hong knew, without needing to ask, exactly what conclusion their host had reached.
He also knew Zhao Shaoshang had noticed.
Naturally, Zhao Shaoshang said nothing.
For nearly three minutes.
Then, while Kobayashi turned to greet another guest, Zhao Shaoshang leaned slightly closer.
"See?"
Yuan Hong kept his eyes forward.
"No."
"We look good together."
"Focus on the meeting."
"We look very good together."
"Shaoshang."
"Almost as though someone planned it."
Yuan Hong reached for a glass of water.
Beside him, Zhao Shaoshang opened his fan to hide his smile.
Yuan Hong looked at the burgundy silk stretched across his own chest.
He thought about a salesman who had assumed too much, a father who did not approve, an older sister who had accidentally become part of a courtship that did not exist, six suits, too many ties, and the simple fact that when someone had asked what his companion liked, Yuan Hong had known the answer immediately.
He took a drink.
Then he looked at Zhao Shaoshang.
Zhao Shaoshang was still smiling behind the fan.
Yuan Hong looked away before his own expression could betray him.
The salesman, he decided, had been wrong about several things.
But perhaps not everything.