DAY ONE ★ one bullet to another

[yifantasyfest]

Username: sexyvanillatiger
Prompt #: 185
Title: One Bullet to Another
Ship: Lay/Yifan
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 23,165 words
Warnings: Graphic violence, attempted sexual assault, mentions of prostitution and illegal drug use
Summary: Zhang Yixing applies for the undercover position because he knows that he can do good where other men will fail. He doesn't account for Kris, the enigmatic gangster who takes an interest in him, when he comes to this conclusion.

Decapitation doesn't even work. Yixing has done his research, he's read all of the articles on leadership targeting, and he knows that arresting or even killing the kingpin will do nothing but stir up chaos in the Hong Kong underground. There are innocent lives at stake: people living in poverty, on the brink of crime with nowhere else to go, and taking out the man who controls the largest organized crime triad in Guangdong won't hurt the police who caught him nearly as much as it will those tragic bystanders. So Yixing—patient, perseverant Yixing—applies for the undercover position, knowing that he'll be able to do good where others may start a war over an itchy trigger finger. At first, he is denied because his Cantonese is accented and bumbling. Later, when he has undergone private speech training to hide whatever pieces of Changsha are left in him, he is almost denied again because of his age. His chief just shakes his head sadly, pushing his file to the side. "You're too young to be going out there. You don't even know what you're asking me to do, setting you up undercover." "Better me than anyone else. Some of these candidates are fathers, and almost all of them are husbands," Yixing counters. His chief grunts in acknowledgement, but still looks pained by the idea. "This isn't like the gangs from your hometown," he says, but he doesn't outright deny Yixing's application this time. Yixing considers that, at least, a tally in his favor. Single with no living relatives and sufficiently new to Hong Kong, Yixing thinks that he is possibly the best candidate for the position. The only fight he has left in his is life for the oath he swore as a young man, fresh out of technical school. He's spent the last three years working his way up the ladder in law enforcement, but more importantly, he's spent enough of his life slumming to know what the other side of the law looks like. He knows the people he's fighting, and the people he's protecting. Mostly, he knows that the two aren't as mutually exclusive as too many officers believe. "What I don't understand," the chief says while Yixing is waiting to take the mandatory polygraph test, "is why. You're a good looking kid. You could be out finding a pretty girl and settling down. You're smart, too, you could be going into administration if you wanted. Why does a kid like you want to get his hands dirty like this?" His language is provocative, but Yixing doesn't rise to the bait. "I think I'm the best man for the job," he says, simply and honestly. The chief just shakes his head and steps out of the room to watch the interview through the two-way mirror. Yixing's instructor for the training course is a strange man with a biting sense of humor who jokes on the first day that they knocked out his teeth, greyed his hair, and they almost took his life, but they didn't kill his whimsy. He teaches Yixing slang, proper attire, and etiquette, but most of all, he teaches Yixing how to build a case. It's nothing like building a case as a detective. Yixing can see how putting years of detective work under his belt will have its benefits, but the learning curve is still steep. There is no impression of rushing in the course, which makes sense. The operation itself will take months or years; any time spent training beforehand is not time wasted. Still, Yixing wonders some nights if the chief is intentionally slowing everything down to give him an out. If he is, Yixing doesn't take it. The chief pulls him from patrol duty, assigning him deskwork to fill his time. Yixing thinks it's punishment at first, but after the first few days, he hears the chief muttering, "Just do it. I'm not going to let them learn your face before you can even get on the fucking street," and he resigns himself to the menial assignments, knowing that one day soon, he may very well long for the days when his worst troubles were navigating bureaucracy. Yixing takes this time to acquaint himself with his handler, an older man who asks Yixing to call him ge by the end of their first conversation. Yixing appreciates it, feeling himself around Hong Lei-ge. Feeling young and accomplished at the same time. Hong Lei is a fountain of advice and encouragement, perfectly counterbalancing the trepidation and pessimism from the chief. His assignment starts in less than a week when the chief calls Yixing into his office. "See, here's how it goes," he starts, not meeting Yixing's eyes. "You came to me almost a year ago this young guy from a good city up north, telling me you have no family, no girlfriend, and a degree. I think, good. Give him a job in Hong Kong, we've got plenty of families and girlfriends down here. You show me that you're hardworking and trustworthy, I think, good. Put him on patrol. Give him room to grow. You show me that you're smart. I think, good. Give him detective work. Start using him to his potential." After a pause, he says, "I think that's where I went wrong." Yixing opens his mouth to interject, but the chief shakes his head and continues. "I don't have a girlfriend or family either. My wife, may she be in peace, died years ago. Cancer. Nasty stuff. Always knew it would come to her; all the girls in her family got it at some point or other." He sighs wistfully. "So she left me and my son years ago." Yixing settles back into his seat, trying to shrink away from the chief's story. The chief finally raises his eyes to look at him. "He would have been just a little bit older than you. My son." "I'm sorry," Yixing says because there's nothing else to say. The chief waves him off. "I'm not doing you any favors sending you out there. There's a lot you got going for you in life. You've got so much potential—and this isn't one of those woe-is-me, my son is dead and I'm looking at replacements things. But I see the same thing in you that I saw in him. See, he didn't know where to stop. He could never tell when enough was enough. Now, he wasn't a cop. He was a doctor. And if he can work himself into a grave because he didn't know his limits as a doctor, that tells me that you're going to have a much bigger problem in the triad." The chief takes a deep breath and leans forward, staring Yixing down with a menace that Yixing has seen but never been subjected to. "So tell me honestly, son, have you heard a single goddamn thing I've said? Are you still doing this? Because here, you're safe. In here, you not only have me, but you have every single one of those men out there behind your back," and the chief exaggerates grandly beyond the window of his office. "But if you go undercover, if you take off your uniform and try to pass yourself as the scum that you're trying to fight, none of us can save you from the things you're going to see. The things you're going to do." Yixing stares mildly back when he says, "I don't need saving." "Goddamnit, Zhang!" the chief shouts, slamming his fist onto his desk. The pain seems to shock him, and he follows his outburst with an embarrassed silence. Finally, he rubs a hand down his face and speaks. "You will, son," he says, expression crumpled but resigned. "You will." Yixing starts by downgrading his apartment, signing the lease under a fake name and paying his deposit in cash. He strips away the vestiges of his good life; he doesn't even have a badge in his new apartment. It could almost feel like losing everything he's worked so hard for, but he refuses to look at it like that. Now, he's working towards something else. The HKPF already has people in place for him, contacts to get him set up. He hears from one late on a Monday night. There's a shipment that needs to be transported. Nothing particularly exciting—alcohol to a notoriously owned club, frequented by notorious persons. What Yixing is there to do is unload crates. Yixing wonders if establishing himself would have been easier back in Beijing, where he already knew people on the fringe of the underbelly. People who owed him favors, or favors he had owed others. But it's not like that here. Yixing shows up where he's supposed to at the time he's expected, miraculous given his tedious relationship with the streets of Hong Kong, and he meets three men who eye him warily at the back of a strip. He's twenty-four but he doesn't look like it, and his face is a blank slate even on the best days, so their suspicious glares die into disinterested glances after a short while of heavy work. None of them look like HKPF, but Yixing supposes that's the point. He even humors the idea that his contact isn't here at all, and he's working tonight alone. The men don't talk to him, don't acknowledge him, and when they talk amongst themselves, they don't say anything interesting, much less incriminating. Still, they let him stay and help. The crates are loaded and heavy, and Yixing's back twinges in protest. He does not say a word. They carry the crates, one by one, through a labyrinth of hallways in the back up to the kitchen where they can be stored in a large dark room. A waitress stops to argue with one of the deliverymen, who argues back for a long while before turning to Yixing and shouting, "You, new kid. Find the crate with the shaojiu and follow her." Yixing does as he's told, propping the storage room door open with a stopper to let some light in before taking a crowbar to the tops of the crates that are inside. The first one he opens is filled with beer and is padded with wood shavings, so Yixing replaces the top and tries the next box. This one is filled with foreign wines. He replaces the top and prays on the next box; the prying is starting to make him ache in his old injuries. This one is filled with domestic spirits, but Yixing still has to dig almost halfway down through the crate to find a bottle of shaojiu, and he pulls it free with a triumphant grunt. The waitress is shouting at the cooks when Yixing comes out, and she hardly stops as she leads him away, out the double doors and around a half wall to the bar. The bartender is mixing when they get there, so she pushes Yixing forward and yells for him to go back to the truck when he's done. She's gone before he can acknowledge her command. The bartender beckons him over with a crook of his finger. He takes the shaojiu out of Yixing's hand and replaces it with a tray of drinks. "Take this to Kris," he shouts. "Who—?" but Yixing doesn't get his question out before the bartender is pushing him away. He points to a booth in the back, but it's cluttered with people and Yixing isn't sure which one Kris would be. He makes his way over, weaving unsteadily through the crowd in the middle of the floor, and when he comes to the table, he sets the tray down on the edge. He's about to ask for Kris, but the men at the booth (all well-dressed, some looking more like boys than men) lean forward to take their drinks without breaking their conversation. Only one man stops to acknowledge Yixing. The blond man in the back, with the triad tattoo peeking out from below his collar. He leans forward, waiting for Yixing to pass him his drink, and says, "You're new." Without knowing what to say, Yixing nods mutely. "I didn't know Xiaogang was hiring." The other men in the booth have quieted, looking to Yixing with expressions ranging from impatience to apt curiosity. Yixing opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn't know what. He's almost grateful when one of the deliverymen catches him. "Lay," he snarls, grabbing Yixing by the scruff of his neck before noticing the clients at the table. For them, he puts on a large smile and bows, taking Yixing down with him. "Duizhang," he exclaims, and then begins a lengthy and elaborate apology for Yixing's presence. The man at the back watches them closely, revelation slowly dawning on his features, and he looks straight at Yixing. "Lay, is it? You don't work for Xiaogang." Yixing shakes his head. The man in the booth turns his attention to the deliveryman, whose grip on Yixing has tightened almost painfully. "Leave him here." "But—" "I'll keep him busy," the man says, waving the deliveryman away. "Duizhang, he's new. This is his first—" The man in the booth stands, and Yixing realizes how tall he is with a sinking feeling in his gut. He wonders if he's made a mistake, wonders if he's going to die tonight, wonders if the chief will visit his family's altar just to tell him I told you so in the next life, but at least the deliveryman lets him go. The entire atmosphere at the booth has deadened, suspense taking it in a cold grip, but the man's words are gentle when he says, "I'll be answering for his actions from here on out. You are relieved of your responsibilities over him." The deliveryman bows out, thanking him profusely, and leaves. Yixing stares after him, forsaken, and then turns back to the man at the booth, who has seated himself once more. The man sitting to his right, with a sweet, round face and a mean look in his eyes, leans over and says, "Kris…" He sounds curious. Yixing glances back at the blond man. Kris. The man on his right looks as if he has more to say, but another man with a wide, manic smile jumps in, looking Yixing up and down. "What do you need a thing like him for?" Kris rummages around in his pockets for a moment before pulling out an envelope, battered and stained. "He's got his experience in delivery. Now, he's going to deliver something for me." Yixing wants to say, No. Not tonight, but he doesn't. Can't. He looks at the envelope in Kris' hand, looks at the men around the table, and then looks back at Kris. In the end, what he says is, "I'm new to Hong Kong." Kris waves him off. "You'll have a driver." Another silence passes and Yixing starts to suspect that they're waiting for a response. Hesitantly, he nods his head. The tension breaks immediately. Kris stands again, gesturing for his friends to move, and he exits the booth. "Good," he says. "Let me walk you to your car." Instead of taking him out back, Kris leads Yixing around to the front. A driver in a black town car has already pulled around to meet them and Kris leans over to speak to the driver through the window. He speaks in English; Yixing's gut clenches in panic. He'd been exempt from the English proficiency exam when he applied to join the HKPF due to his fluency in multiple Chinese dialects. Now, he almost wishes he'd been forced to learn the language. Kris' voice is smooth, and it doesn't sound like he's ordering the driver to take Yixing to a pier with a pair of cement shoes, but god knows what that would even sound like in English anyways. Kris turns back to Yixing, who hopes that his fear isn't written on his face, and hands him the envelope. "The driver is going to take you to an auction house," he says, reaching forward to straighten Yixing's jacket before pulling something out of his own pocket. "You are going to go in and walk straight past the doormen. If they stop you, show them this," and he holds up a coin with special engravings. He reaches forward and drops it into Yixing's breast pocket. "You will not open any doors except the one I tell you, and you will not talk to anybody. On the very top floor in the very back of the building, there will be an office with the name Wang Li Kun on the door. Walk through there and leave that," he taps the envelope, "on her desk. Do you understand?" Yixing nods without speaking. Kris asks, curiously, "Do you know how to fire a gun?" Yixing freezes and shakes his head no, but he also hesitates first, so Kris rightly assumes the opposite. "Are you carrying a gun?" he asks, and this time, Yixing tells him no more resolutely. He's not. "In that case, you'll do best by just keeping your eyes on the ground. Be careful and mind your manners, Lay. Tomorrow, come back here and I'll pay you." He smooths Yixing's hair out of his face, and Yixing stiffens beneath the touch. "Please make sure the letter arrives unopened." With that, Kris turns on his heel and reenters the club. Yixing can't tell whether he's just been threatened or not. The auction house is on the water, with a long pier jutting out from the back. Yixing tries to ignore it because looking at it makes him want to laugh and vomit at the same time. On the outside, the building looks dated, its architecture long since passé, but the inside is modern and fashionable. There are paintings hung on the walls cast in dark shadows, the dramatic lighting making it difficult to see. They look like women in various erotic poses. The walls are painted dark and lit only by an ornate chandelier, hanging high above. It's a small entrance hall, bookended by wrought iron staircases that are hidden by large swaths of burnt gold curtain. The mood is dark and luxurious. Yixing is intercepted the moment he walks in, a man grabbing him by his shirt with one hand and reaching for something in his belt with the other, but Yixing holds up the coin and the letter and he's released. The doorman reaches for the letter with a thick, meaty hand, but Yixing retracts it. The man scowls, barks a command at one of the curtains. Yixing thinks he must be delirious at first, but a moment later, a slighter man with an easygoing smile emerges from the staircase on the left, holding the curtain back from the landing to peer down at Yixing. He exclaims happily, gesturing for Yixing to follow him, and leads the way up onto the second floor. From there, he takes Yixing through what looks more like a brothel than an auction house, back to the room behind the bar which isn't a kitchen, like Yixing would expect, but a row of elevators. The man opens the second one on the right with a key and leads him in. It travels for only a few floors and opens up into a short hallway. There is only one door, at the terminus, and when Yixing approaches it, he can see that the plaque in the middle says Wang Li Kun. He turns to look at the man holding the elevator, who makes a go-ahead sort of gesture, so Yixing goes. He opens the door, finds the office empty, and lays the envelope on the desk. The man holds the elevator doors until Yixing is back inside, and he leads the way back down to the front hall, where Yixing is promptly ushered out. He stands there for a moment, reeling, worried that he must have forgotten something, that something must have gone wrong. It was too smooth, too easy. But Kris' driver is waiting for him, holding the car door open impatiently, so Yixing casts one last look back at the auction house before climbing in. The driver asks him for directions back to his residence, and Yixing instead directs him to a complex a few blocks down from his own. He waits until the driver has left before walking home. It's almost three in the morning when he gets in, so he decides to call in in the morning. Yixing strips, slides into bed, and stares into the darkness. His eyes won't close and he can't stop his thoughts from going around in a circle. He tries to remember what his objective was. Deliver crates. He imagines how the conversation with his handler will go; how he ended up at the waterfront and what he was doing there. He tries to retrace the path from the club to the auction house, but he can't. There are blank spaces where there should be turns and garbled characters where there should be street names. He rolls to the side and tries to close his eyes again, but they tremble and flutter open again. Yixing reflects that at least getting in wasn't…difficult, per se. It wasn't what he expected. He never thought that making it would be anything like the movies, where he would have to prove himself in some violent, dramatic way. Never worried that he'd have to break somebody's fingers, take a crowbar to someone's knees. No, he had assumed that it would be very much like it was—making the right friends in the right places—but he realizes that he never anticipated where those friends would come from, or how they would help him. Briefly, he wonders who Kris is, but the thought dies quickly. He has no leads. When he does call in the next morning, his handler tells him that the chief has words and patches him through. The chief is furious, spitting and shouting and threatening to take Yixing off the case after only one night. "Weijia was waiting for you until one-thirty in the morning," he yells, and Yixing vaguely recognizes the name of one of his contacts. "He thought you'd been killed. You shouldn't have gone running off in the first place!" "I wasn't given a choice," Yixing says calmly. The chief continues to rant right over him, and Yixing lets him lose his steam before explaining. "I followed the orders of those above me, and that resulted in me running a private errand for a man named Kris." The chief's voice changes very quickly. It's tight, and Yixing suspects that he knows more than he wants Yixing to think he does. "A man named—Kris who?" "I don't know his surname," Yixing admits. "But I'm going back tonight." "No. No fucking way you're not." "He told me to see him again tonight, in order to collect payment for the errand last night." The chief splutters for a moment, then curses. "I'm sending Weijia with you." Yixing wants to protest, unsure of whether he would be more or less safe if he's accompanied, but the chief won't hear it. Yixing gives the rest of the report quickly, stiffly, and hangs up. He sets his cellphone aside and crawls back into bed, exhausted after only a few hours of uneasy sleep. He doesn't wake again until it's past noon and his phone is wailing at him. He answers blearily and faintly recognizes the voice on the other end. "Lay? It's Weijia. I'm picking you up tonight and I need your address." Yixing gives him the address of the apartment complex a few blocks away and tells him to pick him up there. "I'd like to keep all of this as far from home as possible." Weijia hums sympathetically. He tells him that he'll meet Yixing on the corner at ten, unless Yixing would like to leave later. Yixing doesn't know when Kris wants him to come back to the club, so he agrees to ten even if it feels too early. If he has to wait, at least he won't be waited on. After the phone call, Yixing tries to get a little more sleep, but for all the weight exhaustion bears over him, he can't keep his mind still. Reluctantly, he rises to shower and dress. He's got hours ahead of him until his meeting at the corner a few blocks down, and he doesn't have any errands to run, so he spends his time unpacking himself. There are boxes everywhere, things that he didn't bother unpacking immediately when he relocated. Things that he wouldn't bother with if it weren't for the excessive amount of time he has on his hands. Yixing starts with music. He has a record player on top of a bookshelf, a new one that can also play CDs and has auxiliary input if he feels so inclined. He fills the other empty shelves with his music. Records on the bottom shelf, most of them inherited from his grandparents. CDs on the next two shelves, lined two rows back and he still has to stack some on top of the rows when he runs out of space. Almost all of these are his own. Last, he fills the space around the record player with trays filled completely with tapes. These were from his parents; he treasures them the most and plays them the least. Yixing starts with music so that he can play whatever he wants to while he unpacks the rest of his things. He browses through his CDs first before deciding to play records instead, because turning them and switching them out every half hour gives him a break from the clutter of unboxing his life. When the natural light coming in through his windows dims too much to use, he checks his phone. He has just over an hour before he should leave, and every single towel and bedlinen he owns is stacked somewhere on the floor, their boxes already broken down and discarded. His sorry excuse for a linen closet is going to take some maneuvering to fit everything in, so Yixing decides to leave the mess as is in favor of showering and preparing for tonight. He swipes a towel from the floor and very deliberately doesn't think about seeing Kris. He isn't nervous, but he is concerned about the events of last night and what they could mean. This triad has members all over China; it isn't impossible that someone might have recognized him. But, Yixing thinks beneath the spray of hot water, if they knew he was a cop, surely they wouldn't drag this out. Surely they would have killed him when they had the chance, when he was alone last night. It's too far-fetched, the idea that this could all be a trap. He gets out of the shower, reheats a quick dinner, and has himself a piss before he's completely ready with half an hour before it's even half to. He puts away as much of his linens as he can fit before deciding to just show up early. There's no harm in it. He'll text Weijia when he gets there. But when he gets there, there's already someone waiting on him. The black town car, with the driver leaning against the passenger-side back door, playing on his phone. He puts it away as soon as he notices Yixing approaching, and he opens the door for him. With only a small fumble of hesitation, Yixing slides in. As the man starts driving, Yixing pulls out his phone and texts Weijia. Headed over to the club, he says. Hurry if you wanna be there. Weijia responds almost immediately. alright im on my way to pick you up now Yixing bites his lip. Already got a ride. Head straight there. The driver pulls up to the front and opens the car door for Yixing, but grabs him by the shoulder before he can enter. Wordlessly, the driver steps in front of him and leads the way, not back to the booth from last night, but through those long hallways in the back. Yixing realizes that there is more to the hindquarters of the building than just a kitchen. There are mazes of hallways with closed doors, and behind them there is a staircase underground. The driver leads him that way, and Kris meets them at the landing. "You didn't open the letter," he says, his face straight but his voice pleased. Yixing shakes his head. "I know. I appreciate that." With one hand, he pulls Yixing close to him while the other reaches into his pocket for something. A roll of bills. "That was a very important envelope, Lay. I appreciate your discretion." Hesitantly, Yixing reaches for the money. Their fingers brush when he takes it, and he suspects that Kris did that on purpose. Yixing looks up at him, surprised by the closeness of their faces. His mouth drops open, but he doesn't pull away. Kris smirks at him, a smug and enticing look, but Kris also just has a smug and enticing face. "You're still delivering for Mr. Li?" Kris asks, and Yixing nods. "I believe that means you'll be on the water tonight. Ten can drive you, unless you'd prefer to take the train." Yixing glances back at the driver, who isn't looking at them. "I…," Yixing starts, but doesn't finish. Kris smirks and pushes through the door behind him, artificial smoke and strobe lighting and the sound of a woman crying spilling out onto the landing. He leaves Yixing alone with the driver, and when Yixing turns to him, he's still staring disinterestedly at the wall beyond. "I'll take the train." He gets to the docks late, but one of the men there vouches for him, throwing an arm around his shoulder like they're old friends. He pushes Yixing towards the boat where he falls in line, passing off relatively small crates, but a large amount of them. "Drugs," the man mumbles into his ear when they pass. Yixing nods, continuing his work despite the growing heat in his waist. The ache comes afterwards, radiating from his collar down to his knees, but he bites his lip and perseveres. It's crippling by the time they've finished and the man in charge has passed him a meager handful of bills. He's stumbling off, back towards the city, when the friendly man catches up. "Show," he says, inclining his head in a bow. "I don't think I've seen you around before." "Lay," Yixing responds, bowing stiffly. "I was in the city last night." "Ah, with Kris," Show says, grinning. "I heard about that." "From who?" Yixing asks vaguely. "What, you don't recognize me?" Yixing looks him up and down. He doesn't, but he's almost certain that he knows what Show is getting at. "Hong Lei made you sound taller," he says affably. Show balks, scrambling to defend his height, and Yixing laughs, clutching his side as he does. Show quiets comfortably after a moment, their pace lazy. "Let me give you a ride," he says, putting a hand on Yixing's shoulder to stop him. "I think you might collapse if I let you walk home like this." Yixing wants to decline, but he can't. He lets Show retrieve his car and pick him up, and by the time he gets home, it's all he can do to swallow a few over the counter painkillers and fall into bed. Getting up in the morning is hard. Yixing lays in bed for a long while, staring at the wall, wondering if he can stretch himself out now, what about now, maybe now. He reaches into his bedside table for another few tablets of acetaminophen and makes it into a burning shower by noon, wincing and grimacing and reminiscing about his days of desk work. Logically, he knows that he would hate it if he ever had to go back, but it's hard to remember a time without pain now that he has it. He can only remember the times when he knows that there was no pain, and those memories become sweet. Hong Lei wants to meet in the afternoon. Show isn't letting him come to the docks tonight, nor to the city, nor to any unloading station. Yixing suspects that Hong Lei might know about his waist, might be coming to relieve him of his position due to his physical limitations. He tries to beg off, tries to say that he'll be busy, but Hong Lei has been talking to Show, who's told him that Yixing will be free for days. It's a conspiracy against him. He begrudgingly concedes to play along. They meet at a sequestered booth in a quaint, beat-down restaurant in the middle of the city. It's owned by foreigners, and most of the customers aren't speaking Chinese. Hong Lei and Yixing both wear street clothes. Yixing's back is sore but no longer screaming, only spasming irregularly every now and then. Almost back to normal. "I used to have a prescription," he admits, when Hong Lei asks him about it. "What happened to that?" Yixing shrugs. "Never found a new doctor after I left Beijing." It wasn't like he'd been taking the pills by then, and he wasn't going to continue selling them in Hong Kong. Not if he got a job as a cop. Hong Lei just hums, sitting back. "Maybe you should have." "You can't pull me for that," Yixing says defensively. "You or the chief. Neither of you can." "Nobody's trying to," Hong Lei responds kindly, but he's lying. "So, drugs. Alcohol. You haven't had a very exciting first few days." Yixing shrugs, tilting his head and leveling Hong Lei with a calculating look. "There was Kris. Show seemed interested in that." "I guess he would," Hong Lei says meaningfully. He leans forward, glancing around even though they're alone back here. "So you've met him," he leads. Yixing nods. "Who is he?" "Oh," Yixing says, and this is not a question he expected. In fact, he expected to be asking this question. If Hong Lei and Show both know about Kris, he'd been certain that they would know who he is. They both made him seem important. "I don't know. I thought…don't you know who he is?" Hong Lei sighs heavily. "No. We know a lot about Kris, but we have no idea why. He's not related to anybody, he hasn't done anything special. He just—came out of nowhere a few years back and he's been close to the top ever since." Yixing purses his lips together, frowning. "How close to the top?" "It'd be easier to answer that if we knew exactly where the top is. From what we can tell, he gives orders to a lot of people." Hong Lei quiets as a waitress approaches, the heels of her shoes clicking from a distance so they know of her presence long before they can see her. She arranges a set of plain dishes with rich food between them, silently bowing before leaving them alone again. "We're not talking about a neighborhood faction, either. He has a lot of pull all over Hong Kong. Show has heard his name everywhere." A silence passes between them. Yixing is reconciling this gangster with the Adonis who asked him to deliver a letter the other night. He'd expected power, but not city-wide. That kind of thing doesn't happen in Hong Kong. It's too big, and too full. There's no room for names outside of the triad. Hong Lei is right; Kris must be close to the top, and Yixing delivered a letter for him. "Look, son, the chief isn't thrilled that you got thrown into this so quickly. He was hoping that putting you with Show and Weijia in the docks would give you more time to acclimate, but—well, look. This changes things. We've never been so close to Kris before." "Kris knows me now," Yixing accedes, nodding, "and the chief wants me to…?" "To do something with that, if you can." Yixing exhales and looks down at the food. This was the goal, wasn't it? That several years down, Yixing would be giving over names. Evidence. Location coordinates. Maybe not from the top, but from a vantage point where he could still see it. Several years down the road. Yixing rubs his hand over his face wearily, dragging the skin over his eyes taut before letting it snap back into place. "Fuck," he says quietly. "Yeah, okay. I don't know when I'll even see him next," he cautions, looking up at Hong Lei with a hard gaze. "But if I do, I'll try to keep close." "That's all we can ask." Hong Lei pushes his chopsticks forward. "Now eat something. It hasn't even been a week since I last saw you, and you already look like skin and bones." That night, Yixing calls Show, asking him about where they'll be for the next few nights. Show hums and haws around the subject before telling him point-blank to stay home for the night. Yixing protests, but Show hangs up before he can come up with a substantial argument. It's a long night of waiting, and a long day after that. Show doesn't text him an address until the third day that he's home, and by then, his back feels so fine that it doesn't even hurt when he bends or turns. Show sends him to a job with larger crates, similar to the first night. Larger crates with more individual lifting, but Yixing appreciates it. It's less twisting, and he can use his legs instead of his back. He thinks that Show has thought this through, because his next job is similar. As is the next. Show, he realizes, is taking care of him. Yixing is grateful that someone is when the hard labor is already pushing his capacities. He's got too much on his plate to worry about injuries. Like Kris. Yixing keeps an eye out for him, especially when they deliver to clubs. He delivers drugs, alcohol, even a truckload of girls at one point, all of them smoking and laughing at him when he blushes and looks away from the holes in their hosiery. Yixing isn't focused on drug lines or trafficking rings anymore, far more preoccupied with the man running them. But Kris hasn't shown his face since the night he paid Yixing. Yixing is beginning to wonder if it was all just a dream, if he ever actually met Kris. He knows that he did. But that night is so far away from where he is, right now, resting in the shadows of a truck for just a moment as he weathers a particularly rough set of spasms. Show finds him there, digging his thumbs into his waist and breathing heavily, and he tells Yixing to go home. He seriously considers it. Show takes him back into the light, heading to where his car is parked several blocks down, when one of the other men grabs him by the arm. "Lay?" he asks, his voice sneering. Show looks at Yixing, who shrugs. "Yeah?" "Come with me." The man shakes Yixing out of Show's hold, and Show makes no move to stop him. Yixing is grateful. He doesn't think he can endure any more rough handling. Not tonight. He follows easily, obediently, up to the front of the club. This one is smaller than most he's visited, with no back rooms and no basements. There's only a dance floor and a lounge, and Kris is seated in a table very close to the back wall with only a couple of men around him. "Lay," he says, eyes narrowing and mouth curling in a seductive smile. Yixing wonders if he does it on purpose. "I heard you were here tonight." Yixing shifts his weight, but stiffly, inclining his head. Kris' eyes linger for a moment, silent when Yixing would have expected him to continue. Instead, he takes this time to observe. Yixing, wearing nothing more than jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt, feels incredibly scrutinized. "I need your help again," Kris finally says. One of his friends rolls his eyes and makes a dirty joke under his breath, but Kris doesn't acknowledge him. "I need you to go back to the auction house and pick up a file for me from the same office where you dropped off the letter." Yixing nods, trying not to look too eager. "Good," Kris says. "Meet Ten out front." Yixing does as he's told, bowing painfully before leaving the group. Ten is waiting for him with the back seat door open. Yixing slides in, and the drive to the auction house goes much quicker this time. He doesn't have a coin with him, but the men at the front recognize him and escort him to the office without a fuss. The file is in the center of the desk, sealed shut so that Yixing can't see what's inside. In neat handwriting at the top, Wang Li Kun has addressed it to Kris. Yixing runs his thumb over the characters. It's such a short name when he reads it in print. He wonders for a moment if it's fake. Kris is alone when Yixing gets back to the club. He's grateful. He hands the envelope over without bending his back, and Kris' eyes narrow. "You're in pain," he says, catching Yixing off-guard. He tries to relax, in case Kris is still observing him, but he's been worked too hard. He can't. "Are you hurt?" Yixing shakes his head. Kris scoots over in the booth and gestures for him to sit. Yixing would rather stand, but he obeys. He realizes that this could be his opportunity, the one that Hong Lei and the chief were waiting for, but he would rather that opportunity come while talking about anything but this. "It's an old injury," Yixing finally says. "And you decided to work with crates," Kris says, chiding. "I didn't decide anything. I took what was given to me." "Ah," Kris says, reclining. "Of course." His dark eyes narrow, his thick lips twisted in thought. "Would you like a choice? Xiaogang's club could always use pretty servers in the back rooms.” Yixing flushes and averts his eyes. Kris laughs like he's made a joke. He slides closer. "I'll speak with Xiaogang. He'll give you one night to make a decision.” Yixing thanks him, because nothing else is appropriate in this situation. Kris pays him for the personal errand and sends him home, telling him when to arrive at Xiaogang's club the following evening, as well as what to wear and which entrance to use. As relatively early as he gets home, it's still late, and Yixing doesn't fall asleep immediately. He takes his time pushing through his soreness and stiffness to find a comfortable position, and he spends far too long laying there before he closes his eyes and they stay that way. Xiaogang's club is the same as it was the first time Yixing came. There are the booths surrounding the dance floor, the bar and the kitchen in the middle, and then the extensive labyrinth of hallways in the back. Yixing cuts immediately to the far right side of the building where Xiaogang has an office. Yixing thought that it would be difficult to find, but Xiaogang has made that impossible. The polished black marble tiles leading the way to the office are lined with gold inlays; Yixing follows them straight to his destination. The office door is painted white in stark opposition to the dark decor in the back halls, and a strip of frosted glass windows runs along the walls surrounding the door. There are no benches to sit on while waiting, so Yixing knocks on the office door. Xiaogang is shorter than Yixing would have guessed. He looks down at the man who answers the door, his buzzed hair gray and his eyebrows faded and bushy. His mouth looks downturned at first, but Yixing realizes that it is only heavily lined with deep wrinkles. In fact, Xiaogang is possibly smiling. He pulls Yixing into the office, large but filled with furniture. There are chairs in here, and Yixing takes a seat at one of them. "You have come highly recommended, young man," Xiaogang says to him when he settles himself back behind his desk. "Not every applicant gets a recommendation from Kris." "I am grateful for his support," Yixing says in a very politically correct tone of voice. "As you should be," Xiaogang mumbles, observing him openly. "Do you have any experience serving?" "Yes." "Good. Then the only thing you'll have to learn how to do is keep your mouth shut." It sounds like a line from a movie. Xiaogang reclines in his chair, looking satisfied with himself. "Kris mentioned that you're new to Hong Kong." "I am." "How new?" Yixing shrugs. "I've only been here for a few months," he lies easily. Xiaogang just nods. "Got a girlfriend, then?" "No." "Any friends at all?" "Not in the city." Xiaogang hums, his gaze contemplative once more. "You do understand that lying does you no good in here. We'll find out." Yixing must look as uncomfortable as he feels, because Xiaogang smiles that wrinkled smile of his and leans forward placatingly. "It's okay, son, you're not in trouble. But if you do decide to go run your mouth about the things you see and hear in here, well, we need to know who you're running your mouth to." "I have nobody." Xiaogang considers this seriously for awhile before cracking his smile and leaning forward. "Who comes to a city where they don't know anybody, hm? You must be crazy somehow." "I had nowhere else to go." It's not exactly a lie. Yixing says it easily. "Well, that's a little bit different, isn't it." Xiaogang finally looks at him like a man rather than a mouse. Yixing doesn't relax, but he also doesn't feel as threatened anymore. "Is this everything you hoped for, then? Your dreams coming true?" "I am…grateful," Yixing admits. Xiaogang nods his approval, standing and walking around his desk. He opens the door to the office, gesturing Yixing that way. He starts down the hallway, saying, "I am always willing to give good things to men who are grateful." He leads Yixing to the kitchen where other young men and women in all-black clothes are moving quickly with purpose. Xiaogang grabs one of them and pulls him to the side. "Xiumin," he says, "this is Lay. He will be following you tonight. Tomorrow, he will get his own tables, so teach him well." Xiumin is a quiet man who teaches mostly by doing. When he does speak, he speaks with an accent that Yixing can't place, and he never spills a drink. He never serves the tables in the main room of the club, only the back rooms. He moves through the maze of hallways with the ease of an ant in its own tunnels, a skill Yixing assumes comes with time rather than effort. He hasn't walked into the wrong room yet, but he has been led astray by misleading sequences of door numbers. Xiumin tells him that the strange layout interferes with assassination attempts. Yixing can't tell if he's joking or not. Yixing is supposed to be working his own tables by the second night, but Xiumin tags along when he can, and Yixing decides that he likes him. He's pragmatic, level-headed, and most of all, he's efficient. He carries the drinks he's worried Yixing will spill. He opens the doors when Yixing has his hands full, jots down tabs for him. He tries to teach him the layout of the hallways, but every time Yixing thinks he's got it, Xiumin is pulling him around by the collar of his shirt, saving him from walking the wrong way again. When Xiumin finally lets him work his first night alone, Yixing meets two illicit weapons dealers, sees a brick of cocaine lying out in the open, and gets lost a total of four times throughout the night. He keeps his face cool and his eyes trained ahead, but he does pick up names when he can. Little things to pass along to Hong Lei, just in case it will one day add to the case. For being a triad-owned venue, the club is quite placid and orderly, which makes Mr. Park all the more discrete from everything else Yixing experiences while working at Xiaogang’s club. The first time Yixing meets Mr. Park, it’s in a private room, the same one he gets every time he comes. He tries not to touch the man as he hands off his drink. The dancer on the pole in the middle of the room is circling lazily, watching Yixing with narrowed eyes, glancing between him and Mr. Park. Yixing recognizes Mr. Park vaguely, and later he realizes that it's because he holds a seat in the Security Department. Mr. Park doesn't recognize him at all (for which Yixing is immensely grateful), but he does pull Yixing close by the collar of his shirt, staring blearily into his face. He's already drunk, and his breath stinks of onions and gin. "You're new," he slurs, which Yixing does not respond to. He pulls Mr. Park's hands from his shirt, but they reattach to his wrists and pull him down. He thinks that he's supposed to land in the seat, but he ends up sprawled across Mr. Park's lap, his empty drink tray clattering to the floor. "It's rude to ignore a question," he says, even though Yixing is almost certain that what Mr. Park said wasn't a question. He lets Mr. Park collect him in his short arms, turning Yixing's face this way and that. "Yes, you are new, aren't you?" "Yes," he answers tersely. Out of the corner of his eye, Yixing thinks he can see the dancer giggling into his hands. "Mm, Xiaogang always hires the pretty ones." Mr. Park is swooning, looking close to passing out, and Yixing is worried that he will pass out right against Yixing's chest. He goes too readily when someone pulls him out of Mr. Park's lap, yanking him up to his feet by the back of his shirt. "I'm sorry, Mr. Park," the dancer says, steadying Yixing with a hand at the small of his back, "but I think Xiaogang is waiting for this server in his office. I'll go make sure he gets there safe." The dancer leads Yixing out before Mr. Park can assemble a coherent objection, dissolving into laughter as soon as the door is closed. Yixing flushes, storming off, but the dancer catches him by the back of his shirt again. "You're going the wrong way," he says. Yixing scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. The dancer smiles endearingly. "I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have laughed. You're Lay, right?" Yixing nods, looking into the dancer's pretty face. He doesn't think he's seen him. "Xiumin told me about you. I'm Luhan." "Oh." "Oh. So you're welcome for getting you out," Luhan sneers, something in his eyes still laughing at Yixing. "Wait, Xiaogang doesn't…?" "No. Even if he did, how would I know? Next time, you could thank me for saving you like that. How about bringing me a margarita when you come back around? I'll try to keep the dog from jumping this time." Luhan smiles sweetly and ducks back into the private room before Yixing can object. He turns the way Luhan pointed him and throws himself back into the tangled web of hallways towards the kitchen. Most of the customers are not as bad as Mr. Park. Most of them don't care about the servers; they just want to be left alone with their drinks and their strippers. Most of the dancers are kinder than Luhan. Joy and Krystal make a point of thanking Yixing every time he brings a drink to their customers, since the customers usually don't. But Luhan is more helpful than the other dancers. In a way that might be tasteless in any other scenario, Lu Han gossips. He tells Yixing things that he shouldn't know, things like drug lords' secret affairs and which city executives are in the triad's purse. This is how Yixing learns of the hotel in downtown Hong Kong where tourists go missing without a single report. A trafficking ring that runs straight to the triad has its fingers in that building, reaping the easiest and most beautiful wretches like a farmer bringing in the harvest. The chief is able to mount a full crackdown of the building, locking it up and taking the owner away. The girls that have been taken are already gone, but the government has seized the building, which Yixing hopes will save many more. For the first time since the night when he started with unloading crates, he feels useful. Like he's actually doing something good. That hotel isn't the triad's only source for their trafficking affairs, but it's enough to shake everyone up for a few weeks. Yixing tells Hong Lei to tell the chief to not send officers around the club, to not question certain men, and especially to leave Luhan out of it, because the last thing Yixing needs is for his only source of useful information to dry up in a defensive panic. Xiumin already tells Luhan that he talks too much. That one day, he'll just be another stripper someone found in a ditch if he doesn't shut up. Luhan looks hurt whenever he says that, but Yixing thinks Xiumin only says it because he cares for Luhan in his strange, defensive way. It's the same kind of way he cares for Yixing, often berating him for letting Mr. Park touch him as much as he does. "I don't let him touch me." "I didn't see you stopping him." "What was I supposed to do? Hit him?" Xiumin sends Yixing a pointed look. Luhan coughs into the bottle of water he's chugging, and Yixing thinks that he's probably laughing at them. Truthfully, Yixing does let Mr. Park touch him more than he should. It's amazing what a drunk man will say when he's holding something he likes. It's hard to get information out of the guests in the back rooms when they have no reason to trust him and every reason to seal their lips when he comes around, but Mr. Park is always more than willing to share. Luhan understands, as much as he can. He doesn't know about Yixing's operation, but he sympathizes with a need to know what's going on. Xiumin calls them both trouble with this worried look in his eyes that betrays his apathetic front. Luhan just waves him off and always makes sure that Yixing stops by Mr. Park's room whenever he visits. In fact, Yixing becomes so used to Mr. Park's calls that he can't imagine why Xiumin thinks there's a problem. He's lost the sense of vigilance that comes with entering that room, knowing that he's going to be watched and touched and engaged in exchange for what might only be an offhand bit of outdated information. The nights when Mr. Park discusses the real breakdown of the security department's budget or the list of cops who have been blinded with blackmail to the triad's black market in Hong Kong, those nights make it all worth it. So when another server stops Yixing and tells him that Mr. Park is waiting for his drink in his usual private room, Yixing doesn't think anything of bringing it to him. In fact, it's not until he opens the door that he thinks that something could be even remotely wrong. It starts with the fact that Luhan, Mr. Park's favorite dancer, isn't in the room. That nobody is in the room except for Mr. Park and himself. This has never happened before, not with Mr. Park or any other customer. Yixing hesitates at the door, but Mr. Park waves him in. Yixing crosses to the far side of the stage to set Mr. Park's drink down, wary of danger, cautiously trying to keep as far away from the man as possible, but Mr. Park stands and steps right into Yixing's path back to the door. Yixing stumbles away, trapped. "You're so cold to me today, Lay," Mr. Park says, a playful lilt in his voice. "I thought you would be sweeter, now that we're alone." He's slightly taller than Yixing, something he'd never noticed when the man was always sitting. "You didn't even greet me when you came in." "Sorry," Yixing says, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's very busy tonight," he lies, shifting as though to move around Mr. Park. Mr. Park smiles. It's not an entirely unpleasant smile; Yixing thinks he wouldn't mind it so much if he weren't so worried about what it means. "I'm sure Xiaogang wouldn't mind if you made a little bit of time. As long as someone is paying for it." He moves forward, closer to Yixing, who finds himself backing up into the wall. "I don't—this isn't," he stammers, shying away from Mr. Park's outstretched hand. It hits him, all at once. He did this. He walked right into this, leading Mr. Park to believe that this is what he would get if he told Yixing all the things he wanted to know. Xiumin was right. He should have stopped it. His eyes dart around the room, but the only way out is over the booth. Yixing thinks he could make it, but he'll have to move quickly. If he waits any longer, Mr. Park will have him pinned to the wall. He knocks Mr. Park's arm away from him and leaps onto the pearly vinyl of the seats. He scrambles across them towards the door, ignoring Mr. Park's frustrated shouts behind him. He's got his hands on the doorknob, yanking it open, throwing himself into the hallway, to safety, when Mr. Park gets an arm around his waist and yanks him back in. In his ear, the man's voice is low with anger. "We're not finished, Lay," he growls, his fingers tightening in Yixing's clothes. Yixing grabs onto the doorframe; it's the only thing keeping Mr. Park from dragging him back inside. He hauls himself forward with it, but Mr. Park kicks his feet out from under him and he loses most of his leverage. He thinks that this will be it, that it will come down to fighting Mr. Park and praying that Xiaogang will understand, that the triad will understand, when someone in the hallway cuts through the scuffle. "What's going on?" Yixing looks up, his eyes blurry with tears that he didn't realize he was crying. Mr. Park's grip around him loosens, but he doesn't let go. "Kris," Mr. Park says behind him. "I'm sorry. We were just going back inside—" "Lay, what's wrong?" Kris steps forward, pulling Yixing out of Mr. Park's arms. Yixing ducks behind Kris, not saying anything. Kris seems to get it anyways. He fixes Mr. Park with a look that could start a fire. "If I ever see you near him again, you will regret the day you laid eyes on him." Mr. Park flushes, snarling at what little of Yixing peaks out behind Kris' back. "That little—whore—owes me—" "He owes you nothing," Kris snaps, his tone final. Yixing thinks that Mr. Park will explode, but Kris doesn't give him the chance. "Do you have a contract with my family?" The question is strange, almost calm. Yixing looks up at Kris, who looks impassive, and then at Mr. Park, who looks confused. The color in his face is receding, and he almost looks nervous. "Yes," he says. It sounds like a question. Kris's lips twitch, but that's the only sign of his pleasure in saying: "Consider it terminated." He turns, herding Yixing away from the room, back down the hall. Over his shoulder, he says, "My men will be around to escort you out of the city this time tomorrow night." Yixing cranes to see Mr. Parks reaction, but Kris takes him by the arm and leads him away. "Did he hurt you?" he asks when they get out of the hallway. "No," Yixing says, wiping at his face. Most of the tears have dried, leaving his skin feeling swollen and irritated. "Can you really do that?" he asks. Kris asks, "Do what?" in a way that implies there is nothing he can't do. "Break his—contract," Yixing says awkwardly, unsure of whether the contract is literal or symbolic. "I thought he was important. He works for the Security Department." Kris watches Yixing levelly, eyes narrowed, and Yixing worries for a moment that Kris is seeing right through him, to the question he's really asking. How much power do you have? "He's not very important," Kris finally says, a non-answer because Yixing knows that Park is at least marginally important. Instead of pushing the issue, he bows. "Thank you for stopping him." Kris lifts him out of his bow with a hand beneath his chin. Yixing opens his mouth to say something, but the look in Kris' eyes stops him. He swallows thickly, unsure of whether he's allowed to feel what he's feeling right now without reporting it to Hong Lei. He can just imagine the conversation now: I got hard just from looking at him. Maybe you should pull me. The thought pulls him out of his reverie. He flushes and recoils from Kris' grip, clearing his throat in his embarrassment. When he looks back up, Kris is smiling, or maybe smirking. "Let me drive you home tonight," he says. "Please. It will help me sleep tonight." Yixing gives Kris a meaningful look and asks, "Is that a good idea?" Kris stares him down and answers, "I think it could be." Yixing doesn't tell anyone what Kris has offered him. Luhan can tell that something is on his mind, and he asks about it unendingly. Xiumin can also tell, but he doesn't say anything, just watches Yixing and mentions that Mr. Park left without paying. The rest of the night is unremarkable in a very reassuring way. By the time Yixing has finished his shift, he thinks that Kris will have forgotten about his proposition and the implications it holds. He thinks he'll be walking to the metro station like he does every night, so he pulls his collar up to protect him from the cool air. Yixing leaves the club that night with his head down. "Lay?" He stops, looking up at a young man in a driver's uniform next to a black car. It's Kris' driver. "Oh," he says, standing up straighter. The driver opens the back door for him, and Yixing can see Kris waiting in the far seat. "Oh," he says again before climbing in, staring boldly at Kris in his surprise. Kris smiles, and it almost looks kind. "Did you think I wouldn't wait for you?" "No, I just…I didn't know you were…" He trails off, finally breaking his gaze to stare down at his shoes. "Serious?" Yixing shrugs, looking out the window as the driver pulls away from the curb. Kris lets him, staring unabashedly in the silence. It's a much shorter drive than it is a train ride, and when Ten pulls up to the curb outside of the apartment complex a few blocks down, Yixing politely asks Kris if he's walking Yixing to his door. Kris merely gestures for him to lead the way. Kris doesn’t say anything when Yixing leads him down the few blocks to his actual apartment complex. Yixing's building doesn't have an elevator, something he's acutely aware of while he and Kris are climbing the stairs. The hallway is tinged yellow by the old lights, and his key doesn't work immediately. It takes a little bit of jiggling to get it all the way in. This isn't mine, he wants to say, this isn't my life. This is only temporary. And then he wonders why he's worried what Kris thinks of him at all. The apartment is dark when they get into it. Yixing takes Kris' suit jacket and hangs it up beside his coat, and they both toe their shoes off at the door. Yixing watches Kris' face for judgment, but nothing comes. Just the same resting glare that is always there. Yixing opens his mouth to offer Kris something to drink, but then Kris looks at him and it's unmistakable what he's really here for. Yixing closes his mouth and leads the way to the bedroom. Kris kisses like thunder, slow and rolling and powerful. Yixing is pulled asunder, stricken by it. Any doubts about whether or not this is happening crumble; it's too easy for Kris to lead him onto the bed, all the way up until his head is resting on his pillow. Kris' hands are underneath his shirt, and he isn't sure when they got there. He's gasping by the time Kris is playing with his nipples, and when they finally part for air, he's fully hard in his jeans. "Kris," he whines, curling his fists in the expensive material of Kris' shirt. "Yifan," Kris says. Yixing frowns, the cloud in his head parting. "What?" "My name isn't Kris," Kris says, apprehensive under Yixing's acute focus. "It's Yifan." "Yifan?" It explains why Kris' name hasn't turned up anything in the database, but Yixing can't remember hearing anything about a Yifan, either. At least Kris' name was around, even if it was only on the streets. Yixing makes a note to ask Hong Lei about this later. Right now, he likes the way Yifan rolls off of his tongue, and he likes the look on Yifan's face when it does even better. Yixing smiles coyly and moans it this time, "Yifan." The results are immediate. Yifan wrenches his arms up above his head, pinning them down even though Yixing is strong enough that he could break the hold if he wanted. He doesn't. He stretches his body out, chest bowing up long and taut. He opens his mouth in a moan, and Kris kisses him hungrily, thrusting his tongue between his parted lips. Yixing may be stronger, but Yifan is more tantalizing. He could keep Yixing pinned with his kisses alone, stealing the breath right out of his lungs like this. When he tries to trail his kisses down across Yixing's throat, Yixing twists away from him so violently that his neck cricks. He pushes Yifan away and rubs at it, trying to dissolve the numbness and discomfort. When he opens his eyes, Yifan is staring at him. "What—?" he starts, but Yixing cuts him off shortly. "My neck." "Yeah," Yifan says, sitting back up on his knees. "What's wrong with it?" Yixing gives him a sour face before sitting up, sliding forward until he's settled in Yifan's lap. "Just don't touch it," he murmurs, lowering his lips close to Yifan's but not meeting him in a kiss. "At all?" Yifan asks, tilting his head to the side. They gravitate closer, never enough to touch. "With your mouth," Yixing corrects, his eyes sliding shut. Their breaths are warm and damp between them. "So, I could touch it like…this?" Yixing is about to ask, but he doesn't have to. Yifan wraps a hand around Yixing's throat, his grip light. Even still, Yixing has to tilt his head back to accommodate it, opening his eyes in slits just wide enough to stare down his nose at Yifan. His inhales have taken on an affected, stuttering quality to them, more to do with his thundering pulse than the pressure on his trachea, so he bites his lip to hold them in. The dark look in Yifan's eyes gets darker. Yifan pushes on his throat until he falls back down to the bed, abandoning the grip to wrap his arm around Yixing and pull him up, deep into another kiss. It's impassioned, desperate, Yixing clawing at the back of Yifan's dress shirt. "Please," he's saying now, honestly, not caring that Yifan is a gangster, not caring that this jeopardizes his case. He's never felt a want like this. Not in Changsha with his first boyfriend, or in Beijing with his second, third, and fourth. Not with men he should have kept nor men he should have left alone. Yifan, for some reason, is neither of those. Yifan's dress shirt is an obstacle meant for one man's full attention, but they both give it half of that and it almost amounts to the same thing. The buttons are white, anyways, and Yixing's floors are a dark wood, so if they tear any off in their haste, they won't be impossible to find. Yixing's shirt is more of a problem because they have to break their kiss to remove it. Yixing rises up to follow Yifan when he pulls away before letting himself drop back down, naked to the waist. Yifan pauses where he's unfastening his slacks to stare. His own arms are long and toned, his body flat and firm, but Yixing is carved with strength and grace. He preens beneath the attention, stretching this way and that to accentuate the different angles of his pectorals and the sharp cut of his obliques. Yifan pulls his hair to chastise him for flaunting, but it lights a flare of pleasure in Yixing, who bucks his hips forward as a result. Yifan huffs out a low laugh, something like "I should have known," before casting away his slacks and moving to do the same to Yixing's. The slide of their skin is smooth with nothing between them. Yixing reaches down to take the weight of Yifan's cock in his hand, but Yifan pins his wrists to the mattress whenever he tries. Their kisses slow, settling to an ember no less bright than the flame that consumed them moments ago. Yifan parts with a lingering peck and, without completely breaking the brush of their lips, asks, "Can I fuck you?' Yixing's hips twitch and he nods, not trusting his voice to carry the weight of his want. He slides out from under Yifan only enough to reach into his bedside table for lube and a condom, passing them off silently. Yifan is gentle with him, attentive to every small reaction. The first finger breaches him sharply, everything feeling too fast and too tight. Yixing squeezes Yifan's arm hard enough to leave a ring of redness when he lets go, but Yifan doesn't make a sound. He nuzzles into Yixing's hairline, holding his hand still until Yixing starts to rock down into it. The second finger is easier. It always is, Yixing remembers. He opens his legs wide, turning his head to press distracted, open-mouthed kisses to the dark lines of ink on Yifan's neck. Yifan dips his head down to take those kisses on his lips, pushing a third finger into Yixing when he thinks he isn't paying attention. Yixing gasps, and Yifan slides his tongue in. Yixing whines, curling a hand against Yifan's chest. Yifan pulls back to look down at him, and Yixing tells him, his voice tight in his throat, "Please, I'm ready." Yifan is much bigger than his fingers, which is saying something. Yixing rations his breaths and curls his fists tight so that the rest of his body can relax. Yifan watches him sharply but doesn't stop until he's balls-deep, the worst of it over. Yixing breathes heavily through his nose, and he's so lost in how he's feeling that he almost doesn't hear Yifan ask, "You've done this before, right?" He laughs, his body both loosening and tightening with it in a way that makes him forget how stretched out he is, how close to tearing. "Yes," he says, "a long time ago." Yifan hums, leaning in, nosing along the line of his jaw. "You should have said something," he says, rolling his hips experimentally. Yixing gasps, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as he thought it would. When Yifan rolls his hips next, Yixing rises to meet him. Yifan looks up into his face. "I did," Yixing says, setting their rhythm. "I told you I'm ready." Yifan smirks, the blade of his smile dangerous. He fucks in hard and deep. Yixing, who isn't expecting it, cries out but rides it through. This is what he wanted. This is the fire that burns between them, Yifan biting at his shoulders hard enough to bruise while Yixing drags angry scratches down his back, blood bubbling up to the surface in neat, thin rows. Yifan gets his knees under him and pulls Yixing's hips up into his lap, and Yixing wakes the neighbors with his cries. Yixing comes first. It happens too suddenly for him to stop it, overwhelming him before he can think, I would like this to last a little bit longer. He gasps, chest heaving, his nose and mouth buried in the sweaty skin of Yifan's throat. Every desperate breath tastes like Yifan. Finally breaking a hand free from the flesh of Yifan's back, he jerks himself through the end of it, and when he's strung himself along as far as it will go, he pushes Yifan off of him. "Hold on," he croaks out, missing the disappointed look on Yifan's face because he's rolling over. On his stomach, he pushes his hips up, inviting Yifan back in, and Yifan takes him. It's faster, now. Harder. Urgent. Yifan's arms circling between Yixing and the mattress, holding their bodies close, Yixing pressing lazy kisses to Yifan's knuckles and palms. His own orgasm came too quickly to leave him feeling satisfied, but Yifan uses him so roughly and completely that he's sated by the time Yifan releases inside him with a few final stuttering thrusts. Yixing is unsure of how long they lay together like that: Yifan, sprawled on top of him, arms wrapped tightly around him, holding him close. He dozes in and out, the night outside still dark but birds just starting to sing beyond his window. He wonders how late it is. He wonders if Yifan has fallen asleep still inside of him, but when he moves, shifting just a bit so that he can push himself upright, Yifan moves with him, pulling out slowly and rolling him over. Yifan starts to pull the condom off but Yixing does it for him, tying it off and flinging it in the general direction of the nearest trash bin. He pulls Yifan down close to him, ignoring how awake Yifan looks and giving in to his desire to sleep against his chest. Through a yawn, he thinks he manages to say, "We can clean up tomorrow," before falling asleep. Despite this offer, Yixing is surprised to find that Yifan is still in his bed when he wakes in the morning. They parted at some point during the night, taking to their own sides on the double mattress, but their arms are stretched towards one another. Yixing lies like that for a while, extending his curled fingers the last few inches towards Yifan's hand. Yifan breathes a deep breath and reaches for Yixing, who pulls away. Grasping at nothing, Yifan wakes. Yixing tries to look like he wasn't just staring. "What's your name?" Yifan's voice is deeper first thing in the morning, rough and cracking. Both younger and older all at once. Yixing is mesmerized by it, not paying attention to the question, asking, "Hm?" when he looks up because Yifan is watching him expectantly. Yifan repeats himself, and Yixing wakes suddenly and completely with a thundering heart. "What?" But Yifan just smiles, sitting up and letting the blankets pool around his waist. "You don't have to tell me," he says, running a hand through his hair. "I was just wondering. Since you know mine." He drops his legs over the side of the bed, standing in his tall, naked glory, and asks, "Where's your bathroom?" Yixing points it out silently, burrowing into his covers when Yifan has gone. His name. Yifan wants to know his name. Yixing runs through it in his mind, how many Yixings might exist in this city, in this province, in the whole country. How could Yifan assume that he's one Yixing over another? It's only a first name. It holds no meaning beyond himself. It's something he can stand to give. So when Yifan ambles back into the room, cool and dominant, Yixing says, "Yixing." Yifan freezes, dropping the air of authority for a moment. "Yixing?" "My name," Yixing explains. Yifan smiles, childlike, and crawls back into bed right on top of Yixing. "I like it." "Good," Yixing says, reaching up to card his fingers through Yifan's hair. "It's the only one I've got." Yifan hums and lets Yixing's touch pull him close, into a kiss. It feels soft and intimate, not what Yixing would expect the morning after a one night stand with a mob boss. Yifan lets him lie in bed and boils two mugs of tea, bringing them back into bed with him. They make small talk. Yixing mentions his old home, and Yifan asks him about Beijing. Yixing admits that he doesn't know what to share without telling him everything. "So tell me everything," Yifan says, stroking his thumb across Yixing's hip in a way that's not erotic but affectionate. Yixing's mouth twists up to the side while he thinks about he. He knows that he obviously won't be able to tell everything. But he thinks he could tell enough. So he tells the story of his parents, who died before he was a year old in an accident he doesn't remember. His grandparents never wanted to talk about it, and Yixing never wanted to burden them by asking. The not knowing is a hole in him that he still feels acutely as an adult. He tells Yifan about how his grandparents did the best that they could for him with the very little that they had. How his grandfather even picked up more hours at the factory so that they could send Yixing to dance lessons. At home, his grandmother taught him to sing, and he taught himself to play piano and guitar. Yixing was going to be famous one day. He was going to be successful, and he was going to take care of them. Until he hurt his back. Yifan's grip on his hip tightens when he mentions it, eyes narrowed in focus. Yixing tries not to let it deter him, not now, when he's come so far. He talks about the doctors, how they discouraged him from continuing dance. He would already have chronic pain from his injury, and they were certain that any stress on the weakened muscles and his stiff spine would further debilitate him, even to the point of total dependency. Their lectures had been in vain. The cost of his prescription analgesic effectively eclipsed the price of his classes. His grandmother even had to resume work to help. He quiets for a long moment, the pain and sadness from this period of his youth fresh. He's buried it down so soundly that digging it up now shows how the shame is still raw, still relevant. His grandparents died before he could graduate, and there was nothing keeping him in Changsha. He had no money, no home, and no family. Beijing had seemed like a new world full of opportunities, but he learned that if he had nothing in the city where he was raised, there would be nothing for him in a city that had never even known his name. He'd stopped taking his pills then, finding that selling them usually meant he could afford a room and some food. In fact, if he sold more than pills, he could even afford running water and a full meal at least once or twice a day. Turning tricks was easy on an empty stomach. He says this in as few words as possible, but he thinks Yifan understands. Yixing stumbles in his storytelling when he mentions the cop. He hadn't meant to, hadn't wanted to, it was something too personal and too risky to tell Yifan. It leads exactly to where he is right now. But he does mention it, and Yifan leans forward with obvious interest. Yixing sighs and continues. He talks about how he was picked up by a cop on a night when he was doing very well. The kind of night where something always goes wrong to bring balance back to the universe. Getting arrested was going to be the end of what little he had scraped together for himself. He wasn't the kind of boy who would make it in prison, he already knew that. Not with his back, not with his face, not with the things he did in the outside world. He didn't even have a boyfriend who would bail him out of jail if he got taken in; not after Yixing had kicked him out of his apartment for stealing his pills. But the cop hadn't brought him in. He didn't force Yixing to sit in the back like the petty criminal he was. He opened the passenger door for Yixing and drove him around. They stopped for a couple of speeding tickets, and they answered a call about a possible domestic violence situation in an apartment complex. The cop talked a lot; where Yixing had remained silent, the cop spoke nearly the entire night until his patrol was up. He asked a lot of questions, questions about Yixing's life and his family and his friends and why he did the things he was doing. Yixing didn't answer any of them, but they did make him think. Yixing ends his story there. He doesn't talk about how that was when he turned his life around; got a job at a corner store, took out loans, applied to schools all over Beijing. He finally had a purpose, he finally knew what good he could do in the world. He applied to the police academy as soon as he had a degree, and not two year laters, he was in Hong Kong, applying for an undercover position. For a brief moment, Yixing worries that Yifan will somehow read his mind or his eyes or his body language and understand this. Instead, Yifan breaks the silence by saying, "Kindness is can be found anywhere," and they just lay there like that for a bit. "I've never told anybody that whole story before," he says while Yifan is getting dressed. It's nearing the early afternoon now, and Yixing's voice is hoarse from use. Yifan stops where he's buttoning up his shirt (or at least the buttons that are still attached to it) and sits down beside Yixing on the bed. "I'm glad you told me," he says. When Yifan leaves, he takes Yixing's cell phone number with him and leaves behind a promise that this will not be the last time they see each other. Yixing wonders what makes the trouble worth it, but then he thinks about how Yifan knows his whole life story and has also had sex with him, so maybe this case doesn't fit the typical model. He schedules a meeting with Hong Lei in the afternoon, and when they sit down across from each other at their restaurant, Yixing says without delay, "Mr. Park from the Security Department is resigning." Hong Lei frowns at him and sits back. Yixing thinks Hong Lei might as him who Mr. Park is or why it's important that he's resigning, but what Hong Lei actually says is, "How do you know that?" Yixing plays with the edge of the tablecloth, not meeting Hong Lei's eyes. "Kris is making him do it." "Kris?" Yixing nods. "The same Kris?" He nods again. "So you're in contact with him." "Yes." It's a kinder way of putting it, Yixing thinks. "Is it stable?" Yixing hesitates. "I think it could be," he says, "but I'm not sure." "What's the connection?" Yixing turns his head away, grateful for the appearance of their waitress. She takes their drink orders, and Hong Lei insists that he needs another minute to decide what he wants to eat. He stares Yixing down after she's left. Yixing shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Yixing…it's not…please, just tell me it's not something like…drugs?" Hong Lei asks, looking pained. "No, nothing like that." "Violence?" "No." "Then what?" Yixing's face twists up in discomfort. He's going to tell Hong Lei, because if anybody will understand, it's his Hong Lei-ge, but that doesn't make it any easier. The more he hesitates, the harder it is to start. "It…he's not…," he starts falteringly. "I think he might be…attracted? To me?" Hong Lei's brow creeps up towards his hairline, but he doesn't say anything. The waitress brings back a beer and two waters, and Hong Lei tells her that he needs just another minute. Yixing's stomach growls rudely before she's even left. "So you want to use a man's attraction—sexual attraction, right?—to get close to him." Hong Lei leans forward, elbows on the table, expression calm. "That doesn't seem very…straight," he says, bluntly. Yixing lowers his eyes and says nothing. Hong Lei reaches a hand across the table and shakes him gently by his shoulder. "You know, I always had my suspicions. What kid as good-looking as you doesn't have a girlfriend?" He sits back and Yixing looks up at him. "Don't look so nervous. This is your business. Nobody else has to know." The relief Yixing feels in that moment is only rivaled by his affection for Hong Lei. He sags in his seat, only realizing how tense he was now that it has left him. Hong Lei holds a single finger up though, his expression serious. "But I do not want this interfering with your case. You're so close already. Do not let this get in the way." Yixing waves his hand dismissively. "It won't," he lies easily. The next time the waitress comes around, Hong Lei finally lets them order. That night, Yixing doesn't work. Xiaogang calls him, telling him that he has the night off, and when Yixing asks if he's been fired, Xiaogang uses an abundance of swears and asks if he's stupid. A night off and being fired are two different things. Yixing takes this sudden surplus of time to find space for the last of his linens and break down a few of the boxes he still hasn't unpacked. His apartment is just about settled when his phone rings a tinny song from the bedroom. When he picks it up, it's Yifan. "I asked Xiaogang if he would be kind enough to give you the night off." "You can do that?" "That depends. Do you have the night off?" Yixing smiles like a teenager and sits down on the edge of the bed. "Yes." "I'm on my way up. I'll see you in a minute." He hangs up before Yixing can say anything else, and Yixing goes to unlock the door. Before he can reach it, Yifan is knocking in a resounding, precise rhythm. Yixing opens for him, letting Yifan step past him. He locks the door again before turning around, and he watches Yifan peruse the apartment. "It's cleaner tonight," he says, looking back to Yixing. Yixing shrugs and smiles coyly. "I had the night off." Yifan laughs, his grim face lighting up with it, and Yixing lets Yifan kiss him. He walks forward into it, until he's backed Yifan up onto the kitchen table, and there, Yifan turns them around so that Yixing is the one being splayed on top of it. Yifan's hands are roaming up the spread expanse of Yixing's thighs when he asks, "Is this—what—is this?" Yifan stops, planting his hands on the table around Yixing and looming over him. "What do you mean?" Yixing gestures between them. "This. I mean, I know that you're…" Yixing waves his hand vaguely. "Important. And I'm…" He shrugs. "Not. Are you…allowed to be doing this? With me? Whatever this is? Should I sleep with one eye open?" Yifan hums out a sound of understanding. He pulls a chair out from under the table and sits in it, and Yixing wants to sit beside him, but Yifan is still playing with his body, trailing his fingers across Yixing's stomach and chest and throat. "You're right," he says. "I am important." With a little urging, he gets Yixing to pull his shirt off. The table is cold against his back. "And because of that, I can do whatever I want, with whomever I choose, and nobody will have to sleep with one eye open." He pulls Yixing so that his legs are spread around Yifan. "And I'd like to do whatever I want with you." "What do you want?" Yifan leans forward, pressing kisses to Yixing's hips where they disappear into his jeans. "Whatever you'll let me have." "I mean—I'm not just talking about sex, I mean—" "I know what you mean. I'll take whatever you give me." Yixing looks down, propping himself up with his elbows. Yifan's lips haven't left his skin, but his eyes are trained on Yixing's face. "I want you," Yifan finishes before busying his mouth with unfastening Yixing's jeans with his teeth. Distantly, Yixing is relieved that Yifan wants him; it makes his job much easier. More presently, Yifan's trick is the hottest thing Yixing has seen in awhile, and he's completely hard by the time Yifan is done. Yifan stands to pull his jeans and briefs off, throwing them aside, but he sits back down once he's done. Yixing spreads himself across the expanse of the table, completely naked compared to Yifan's dress shirt and pants. He bites his lip and rolls his head to look down at Yifan, who lays him flat and grabs him by the hips before pulling him to the very edge of the table. His tailbone is hanging off, and he gasps his surprise, grabbing onto the sides to keep from falling. He doesn't have to. Yifan has a strong hold of him, smiling in amusement at his shock. He pushes Yixing's hips up until his hole is presented and dips down, licking flat against it without prelude or hesitation. Yixing moans loudly, his body bowing up as the heat of Yifan’s tongue runs up the length of his spine. "Yifan," he whines, curling his hands into fists so that he's not tempted to grab the man by the hair. Yifan hums but doesn't stop, licking until his tongue is as far in as he can reach, nose buried in his ass, teeth scraping at the rim. Yixing squirms, pre-ejaculate oozing from the slit of his cock. Yifan pulls back to breathe, and for a fraction of a second, Yixing thinks he's been spared. He lets out a long gust of a breath and relaxes back against the table. And then Yifan is back in, fucking him with his tongue harder and deeper than before. "Yifan," Yixing snaps, twisting against the surface of the table desperately. Yifan hums again, but this time, he pushes one finger in alongside his tongue. Yixing moans in relief, letting himself run his fingers through Yifan's hair now that he's certain he won't yank it out. "Thank you," he breathes sincerely, rocking his hips down against Yifan's face. "Oh, fuck, so good." Yifan groans and slips a second finger in and pulls his tongue out, spitting onto Yixing's entrance. He fucks his fingers in, twisting and curling them aimlessly, dark eyes narrowed as they weigh Yixing's responses. Yixing closes his eyes and turns his head away, pulls his legs up towards his chest to give Yifan more room to work. He only looks down when the legs of Yifan's chair scrape against the floor, his gaze having to travel far to find Yifan standing above him. Yifan unfastens his pants, pushing them just out of the way before spitting into his hand and rubbing his cock. It's been a long time since Yixing did anything like this. He breathes through his nose but pulls Yifan close when he leans in, lining up with Yixing's entrance. He hesitates, looking to Yixing before pushing in, waiting for Yixing to stop him, but Yixing doesn't. He holds his legs open wider and stares back as though in a challenge. Yifan takes it, sinking in to the hilt. It's not smooth and it's not safe. It's raw and hot and intimate, so intimate when Yifan leans forward and ghosts his lips across Yixing's cheek. He turns his head, but Yifan isn't right there anymore. He's leaned back, watching, and Yixing has to say, "Kiss me," before he gets his attention. To counterbalance the burning and friction of their fucking, Yifan takes him slow and deep. Steady. Gentle. He holds Yixing's thigh open close to the joint, thumb stroking at the fleshy inside as though caressing a lover. Yixing, who has his arms wrapped around Yifan's shoulders, wonders if that's what's going through Yifan's mind. When he comes, it's overwhelming, building up too slowly and then hitting him all at once. His entire body trembles, breath caught up in his lungs, and Yifan strokes him through it. "Fuck," he huffs when he comes down, collapsing back against the surface of the table. He'll have to sanitize it tomorrow. Yifan pulls out and finished across Yixing's already dirtied stomach, catching himself on his elbows before he can completely crash down against Yixing. Together, they manage to work their way into a shower, where Yixing gets down on his knees and takes Yifan all the way down into his throat, and Yifan repays him by fingering him until his eyes are watering. The spray is cold when they get out. Yifan doesn't stay the night this time, excusing himself with something indistinct about work, and Yixing lets him go. He kisses Yifan at the door, and Yifan tells him, "I'd like to see you more." Yixing tilts his head in a way that comes off as scrutinizing, and he's pleased to see the confident look on Yifan's face crumple into something less self-assured. Like this, Yifan looks so young. Yixing wonders briefly if he's ever even pulled a trigger on another man. If Yifan told him he hadn't, Yixing would almost believe him. "Okay," he finally says. "I'd like that." Yifan smiles, running his long fingers through Yixing's hair. "Next time, I'll take you to dinner." "I don't know if I have anything nice to enough to wear to the places where you eat." "I'll dress down, for you." "Romantic," Yixing chips, letting Yifan kiss him once on the mouth before ducking out. He sleeps well that night, even though he wakes up several times reaching out towards the other end of the bed. When he gets back to Xiaogang's club for work, Luhan locks them in an empty room and demands to know what happened to Mr. Park. It isn't until Xiumin comes looking for them both that he gets out. True to his word, Yifan does take him out, and he does dress down. He looks good in a pair of dark jeans. Even without the nice suits, he still draws stares at every noodle shop, every dumpling joint, every dim sum restaurant they visit. Yixing sometimes wonders if the people here recognize Yifan, but he does his best on these dates to not ask about the triad too much. Yifan gets this look on his face whenever he does, like he would do anything to get Yixing to stop talking about it. So whenever he meets with Hong Lei during this time, there's little to tell. Hong Lei presses him to make sure that he's not blurring the boundaries of his relationship with Yifan. Yixing continually insists that he's not, even as he goes home to Yifan waiting on his bed for him with his cock out. It's reckless and impulsive, but it's done. Yixing isn't sure if he feels happy with Yifan because this is part of the job he wanted, months and months ago this is where he wanted to be, doing something right; or if it's because Yifan handles him so sweetly and fucks him so well. Yixing tries to remember if this is what it feels like to be in love. It isn't quite a month like this before things start to go wrong. Yixing is almost waiting for it; dating a mobster has that way of staying in the back of his mind, no matter what they're doing. It isn't Yifan who brings the trouble, though. It's Xiaogang, pulling Yixing into his office as soon as he walks into the back of the club for work one night. He scribbles something down on a notepad and tears it off, handing it to Yixing. It's an address. A very nice address. With a name written beneath it. Mr. Li. Yixing vaguely recognizes the name from his days moving crates, but he can't pull up anything beyond that. He looks up to Xiaogang, who waves him away. "Take a cab. Don't worry about coming back tonight." The cab ride is long. Yixing stares out the window for its duration, watching the buildings get nicer and newer. The streets become smoother and clearer. The street signs are shiny and bright and Yixing hasn't seen a food cart for blocks. The complex where the cab driver drops him is all glass and metal and dozens of stories tall. Yixing cranes his neck back to peer up at it, disappearing up into the night sky. He takes the elevator to the top floor of the building, and when he gets out, a man in sunglasses and a dark suit is waiting for him. He leads Yixing through a multi-level condo, up onto the second floor into an office. The man behind the desk there looks old but sharp, his eyes shrewd and skeptical. Something about the sharpness of his jaw and the heaviness of his brow is familiar, but Yixing can't quite pinpoint it. He thinks that this must be Mr. Li. "I've heard quite a bit about you, Lay," Mr. Li starts, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. He moves slowly and deliberately, and his words are carefully chosen. "This is strange to me, because you are very new and very low on my ladder." Yixing wonders if this is the highest level of the triad, if he's found it. He also wonders if he'll walk out of this condo tonight to even be able to tell anyone. "And the strangest thing is that there is one thing I haven't heard about at all, Lay. I have no idea where you came from." "I come from Beijing," Yixing offers when Mr. Li pauses. "No, you don't." Mr. Li hasn't moved since he clasped his hands together, his weight still shifted forward as though he's staring Yixing down. Maybe he is. His eyes are a sight, dark and dangerous between their narrowed lids. "I'm not looking for your last address. I'm looking for you family, your friends, your employers. Who made you, and why are you not with them? What are you doing in my city?" Yixing knows that he's being examined, that the answers to Mr. Li's questions exist just as much in his body language as they will anything he says. For this, he stands up straight with his eyes lowered respectfully. "I lived up north, when my family was alive." Mr. Li makes a small noise of consideration, sounding suspicious. He finally leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers restlessly against the arm. "Alright," he says at length. "I'll be looking into that. You are dismissed." Yixing looks up, and then back at the man in the sunglasses and the suit. Is that it? He takes a step back, away from Mr. Li, who has already devoted his attention to a file on his desk. Yixing takes another step back. Surely he won't be shot in the back as he leaves, will he? He turns completely towards the man in the sunglasses and the suit, who leads him back to the elevator without a word. Yixing descends it and spends fifteen minutes finding another taxi. He goes home, even though there's a whole night ahead of him. On the ride, he wonders if Xiaogang even expected him to leave that condo alive tonight. He decides not to tell Yifan about his summons. He does tell Hong Lei, who asks a lot of questions that Yixing can't answer. He hands over the address, but there's nothing they can do with it. The description doesn't match anybody in their database, and Mr. Li isn't exactly a useful identifier. "Could he be the top?" Yixing asks, leaning close to Hong Lei so that he can keep his voice down. "It's possible, but we can't know with what you've got. We need more." "I know," Yixing says, an uneasiness in his head when he thinks of seeing Mr. Li again. "I know." Yixing plans not to tell Yifan at all because it's not his problem. Despite this, Yifan seems to know already. He meets Yixing at his apartment, not unusual except for how he moves like a typhoon, thundering through the kitchen. Yixing tries to grab him, tries to slow him down, but Yifan is wound up, shoulders tight, face cloudy when he rounds on Yixing and asks him, "You saw Mr. Li the other night?" Yixing refuses to lie when he's asked point-blank. "Yes," he says. "It's fine, he just wanted—" "I know what he wanted," Yifan snaps, livid. Yixing recoils, withdrawing to the living room. Yifan follows him, still fuming. "I asked him not to do this. I told him I had it under control—" Yixing freezes, whirling on him, snapping, "Yifan, what are you talking about?" Yifan just shake his head and continues to pace, running his hands through his hair. "He's—he doesn't trust me. He doesn't like that we're…" The first think Yixing thinks when Yifan says it is That we're what? Only when he pushes that thought aside does he start to understand what Yifan is saying. "You…know Mr. Li?" Yifan looks at Yixing strangely, like he wasn't expecting that. "He didn't say anything about me?" "No," Yixing says, approaching tentatively. Yifan doesn't pull away from him. "He just wanted to know where I came from." Yifan drops his gaze to the floor, and Yixing frowns. "Who is Mr. Li?" Yifan sighs heavily. He stalks out of the living room, off towards the bedroom, and Yixing follows him. Yifan is undressing when he gets there, dropping his nice clothes right onto the floor before collapsing onto the bed. Yixing follows him, crawling up until they're lying parallel. Yifan turns his head to look at Yixing, and with their faces as close as they are, Yixing can see the fine lines and redness around Yifan's eyes, his obvious distress. He exclaims quietly, pulling Yifan close. "Who is Mr. Li?" he asks again, carding his fingers through Yifan's hair. Against his chest, Yifan mumbles, "He's my father." Yixing freezes where he's playing with Yifan's hair, but only for a moment. He doesn't think Yifan notices, too busy hiding his face in Yixing's chest. There's nothing he can do with this right now, so he tucks it away. Saves it for later, when he meets with Hong Lei again. Right now is a quiet, affectionate moment, both of them dozing in and out, Yixing finding himself on his back with Yifan wrapped around him and no memory of how they ended up this way. The sun is setting, and Yifan seems to have finally calmed down. Yixing checks the time on his phone and knows that he has to get up and head to the club soon. Rousing Yifan is a craft, pushing and pulling at him until his groans his way into consciousness. "I need to go soon," Yixing tells him when he thinks that Yifan might be awake enough to hear him. "Stay here. I'll call Xiaogang for you," Yifan says instead, youthful in his exhaustion. "What if I needed the money?" Yixing asks, biting back a smile. He hates how Yifan makes him feel this way sometimes. Like he can't remember the last time he was this happy. He knows he was happy as a cop, but the high he gets from being with Yifan is so much sweeter. "I'll give it to you. No strings. Just stay." Yifan punctuates this by wrapping himself tighter around Yixing, not even opening his eyes. He isn't aroused or wanting, just tired. Comfortable. Yixing is still in his jeans and a hoodie, and with Yifan wrapped round him it's starting to get a little bit too hot, but he finds rest like this. It isn't until the early hours of the morning that he wakes up and can't get back to sleep. Yifan, without fully opening his eyes, helps Yixing out of his jeans at least. The hoodie stays on until the sky lightens, pulling Yixing reluctantly from another fit of sleep and leaving him unwillingly awake. His father. It's the first thing he thinks of in his newfound consciousness. Yifan's father is the triad's leader, and what does that make Yifan? Yixing looks down at him, surprised by how peaceful he looks. There's no way, he thinks. No way whatsoever. Mr. Li must be someone else. A supplier, a corrupt accountant. It isn't possible that the man who runs the largest crime syndicate in Hong Kong raised the man wrapped around him right now. It just can't be possible. Yixing leans forward, burying his face into Yifan's hair. Yifan murmurs something in his sleep and shifts but does wake. Yixing doesn't get back to sleep at all that morning. Hong Lei is apprehensive about the entire situation. Mr. Li is an enigma; a new face in an old city. It isn't impossible that he's been running the triad, and it would have been much smarter to run the show from behind the curtain, but there has to be proof. Hong Lei is patient; Yixing, who is fucking the man who might possibly be Mr. Li's son, is not. It's all enough to have him snapping at Luhan the next time he gets to work. Luhan only asked him where he'd been, though with a decidedly rude grin on his face. Yixing can't remember the last time he had been so intentionally mean, but he's certain that there was no reason to bring Luhan's questionable occupation into the conversation. Though Luhan has since forgiven him, Xiumin still hasn't spoken a single word to him. Yixing accepts that, forcing himself to keep going through the movements until he gets off, taking to his bed and thanking heaven that Yifan is busy tonight. He thinks he needs the time, just to digest the idea that Yifan is the leader's son. When Yifan does get in, Yixing has already fallen asleep in all his clothes, clutching his pillow to his chest. He wakes like this, unsure of what stirred him until he hears the sound of Yifan undressing, stopping in the bathroom before making his way into bed. Yixing accepts him, half hard from nothing and desperate for a kiss. Yifan gives it to him freely, rolling on top of him, and yes. This is what he wanted. Yixing spreads his legs and pulls Yifan close. "Wait," Yifan says, his voice deeper in the night. He reaches into Yixing's bedside table for lube before descending, surrounding Yixing completely. It's slow tonight, rhythmic, Yifan grinding down against Yixing, undressing him slowly and lovingly. Every newly revealed piece of skin gets a kiss, Yifan working his way down Yixing's thighs, up his stomach, down to the tips of his fingers. When they fuck, they fuck slowly, their foreheads pressed together, noses catching on each upstroke. Yifan comes first, pressing deep into Yixing and not pulling out until Yixing has finished, dirtying both of their stomachs. Yifan falls asleep immediately. Yixing, who had been soundly unconscious only an hour ago, can't even keep his eyes shut for longer than a blink. His vision has completely adjusted to the dark, and the outline of Yifan lying opposite to him is clear in the glare of the moonlight. He reaches forward, tracing his fingers down the strong line of Yifan's nose; Yifan doesn't even stir. Yixing pushes his fingers back through Yifan's hair. The usually soft locks are tangled and matted at the base of his skull. There's a crusty patch over the side of his neck that Yixing must not have noticed before. He squints, picking at it absently. His mind is slow in the late hour, but he figures it out eventually. It's not that he can see it particularly well, or that he's so familiar with its consistency that he knows what it feels like, but there's nothing else it could be. Yifan is a gangster; odds are, it's probably blood. Yixing frowns, looking for a cut. An abrasion. Hoping that it's Yifan's blood, praying that it's Yifan's blood. He wakes Yifan like this, startling when Yifan's arms wrap around him. "Yixing?" Yifan sounds confused. He sounds normal. Just the way he would if there wasn't blood all over his neck. This is it. This is the breaking point, where Yixing isn't sure how much further he can go like this. It was easy before, when he knew only in his head that Yifan was a gangster. Now he can see it. He sits up, sliding away. "What is that?" he demands, needing to know that it's not somebody else's blood. "What?" Yifan sits up, rubbing his neck, and he feels it. His face changes completely, hardening in an instant. If he hadn't been so relaxed just a moment ago, Yixing might not be so startled by the change. "Yixing—" Yixing's voice rises, nervous and jittery. He wishes he had more control over himself, but his pulse is thundering and he can't seem to find the right amount of air. "Did you kill someone?" It's the wrong thing to say, whether he's speaking to a gangster or his lover. Yifan, to his credit, handles Yixing's hysteria well. "I didn't kill anyone," he says, sliding forward slowly. Yixing recoils a bit, but he doesn't have much room to retreat anymore. "Is that your blood?" he asks. Yifan's face doesn't change. "No." Yixing croaks out a weak noise, but that's it. He can't find the words to say. He tries to duck around Yifan to get out of the bed, but Yifan catches him, a hand around his throat. His expression is hard, angry. "Is there something you want to say about it?" he asks, and Yixing stares back at him blankly. This is who Yifan is, he reminds himself. All of those dates, all of those intimate nights, it was never a replacement for the criminal Yifan was raised to be. This is the side of Yifan that Yixing never got to see before. He breathes slowly and deeply, not saying a word while Yifan stares him down. By the time Yifan lets go of him, Yixing has collected himself. He's sleeping with a mobster, and not just any mobster. This is the son of the triad's kingpin. This is Yixing's mission. His job. This is also a man that Yixing has irrevocably tangled himself in, and if he had the choice, he isn’t certain he would choose to disentangle them. Yifan throws himself out of the bed, into his clothes and out the door. He slams it shut and doesn't lock it before storming down the hall and into the stairwell. Yixing can hear him all the way until he disappears out of the building. It's hard to sleep after that. The feeling of Yifan's hand around his throat, the look on his face eager for pain, it lingers. It's frightening. Yixing wonders if he deluded himself into thinking that Yifan was a good man. Yet even now, he sits in his bed, thinking it's their bed, and missing the warmth of Yifan beside him. His chest hurts when he reaches over to the other side, only to find it empty. If this is love, Yixing knows he's in trouble. It will only make his work more difficult in the end. He closes his eyes and wishes that he'd listened to Hong Lei. Yixing doesn't get to sleep again until the sun is close to rising and the birds are starting to sing. It's a heavy sleep, so deep and sudden that it seems like hours pass in only the blink of an eye. He closes while darkness surrounds him. He opens, and it's early afternoon, his phone sounding from somewhere over the side of the bed. Blearily, he fetches it, answering on autopilot. "Hello?" "Yixing." It's Yifan. Yixing sits up, not quite awake yet but getting there. "Yifan?" "I…wanted to apologize. For last night. I was out of line." "No, it's—" Yixing starts, but Yifan cuts him off. "Please. I know that all of this—what I do—it's not for you. And I understand that, Yixing, I know that you want better than this, and I want you to have that. It's unfair of me to expect you to just accept my work like it's nothing because I know it bothers you. But I want you to know that I love you, and I want to make it up to you." Whatever Yixing wanted to say, it catches in his throat. He's wide-awake now, stunned, and he can't speak for a moment. Yifan calls his name, and Yixing snaps out of his stupor. "I love you too," he says, sincerely. He tries to guilt himself over it by thinking of Hong Lei. It's insufficient. He thinks of the chief. It's even worse. "I love you," he says, more surely, "and I already forgive you." He forgave Yifan last night, lying alone in bed. Yifan's voice is brighter when he says, "I'm still going to make it up to you." He tells Yixing that he's taking him out tonight, actually taking him out. Not dressing down, not staying in, taking him out somewhere Yixing deserves to go. He tells Yixing to be ready by seven. Yixing thinks that that will be enough time for him to figure out how to make this work with his case. He has other important names he could give, other information they can use; it doesn't have to involve Yifan or his father. But seven is a long ways away. Yixing rolls around in bed, meeting the clock's gaze so often that he starts to watch individual minutes tick by. When he does get up, his shower takes only half as long as usual, and not even an hour has passed by the time he's eaten lunch. Yixing considers calling Hong Lei, but there's nothing to report. He thinks about the club, but even if he was working tonight, it's hours off from the start of his shift. Reluctantly, Yixing eyes the small stack of boxes left. After that, he'll be completely unpacked. With the way things are going with Yifan, Yixing isn't sure whether he should take care of them or not. He's so close to finishing the case, getting whatever they can on Mr. Li. That coupled with the case Yixing and Hong Lei have been building against many big names in the triad—drug lords, traffickers, arms dealers—all of it could lead to enough injury for the HKPF to finally get a leg up in the battle on organized crime in Hong Kong. In essence, Yixing could be moving again very soon. But he thinks about Yifan, the curve of his lips and the breadth of his shoulders and the fire that lights up inside Yixing whenever Yifan kisses him. He thinks about Yifan and wonders how much longer he can draw this case along, milk it for its worth because the longer he lives as Lay, the longer he gets to fall asleep at night in Yifan's arms. He roots through the kitchen drawers for his box cutter before going back to that corner where those last few boxes are stacked, and he starts with the smallest box. The first two are just knick knacks. Post cards, novelty toys, souvenirs, things that he had the shelf space for in his old apartment but not in this one. He boxes them back up and puts them away in the front hall closet, already stacked high with things that don't have a home here. Yixing coerces these boxes into the little bit of space left at the top before taking on the very last box. He already knows what he'll find. Pictures. Framed, not framed, some in color, most in black and white. This box isn’t very large, but it takes the longest to unpack because he can't stop picking up the pictures and looking at them as he pulls them out. One is of his grandparents, probably on the day of his parents' wedding. Another is of his mother, her belly round and low; at the bottom, a small yellow time stamp dates the picture at only two months before Yixing's birthday. There are pictures of a boy that Yixing had loved when he lived in Beijing, and there are pictures of himself as a child, his grandparents holding him or dressing him or walking him on the sidewalk in front of their home. There isn't enough wall space for every single picture, but he can't decide which ones are worth hanging more than the others. A knock at the doors yanks Yixing out of this life from before that the pictures give him by a knock at the door. He checks the clock, but it's still a couple hours before seven, and he checks himself for his phone. It’s not on him, so he’s not sure if Yifan called ahead before coming early. He tucks his box cutter into his back pocket before making his way towards the door. The man at the door is not Yifan. He grabs Yixing by the back of the neck, steadying him as he pushes a sharp-smelling cloth to Yixing's nose. He struggles, but the harder he fights, the quicker the world fades around him, and he's out before he hits the floor. Yixing rouses slowly, consciousness coming to him in a strange order. The first thing he notices is the pain—in his head, in his body, in his wrists. He can see a room around him; large, open, gray. It takes awhile for his brain to start forming connections again, but when it does, he realizes that he's in a warehouse of some sort. His hearing is foggy, thick, like he's underwater, but as it clears, he hears the voices of men above him. He squirms and realizes that he's on the floor. The concrete is rough beneath his cheek. He tries to sit up, but his hands are tied behind his back. He groans and rolls onto his front, pushing his aching head into the cool floor. Someone above realizes he's awake and toes him onto his back. "Zhang Yixing," Mr. Li says, jacket-less, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. He's wiping his hands with a rag, which he tosses to the side before squatting down at Yixing's side. "It's a terrible thing, making a man do his own dirty work. But," he puts one finger in the air for emphasis, "this is not the sort of thing I feel comfortable delegating. Do you know why, Zhang?" Yixing squints against the lights hanging from above. His head is pounding, and when he tries to roll back over, Mr. Li pins him down by the throat. "The correct answer is because you're fucking my son." Yixing groans, closing his eyes and recoiling from the touch. "Did you think I didn't know?" Mr. Li lets go of Yixing's throat, but he stands and kicks him hard in the side. Yixing cries out, curling to guard his smarting ribs. "He thinks very highly of you. Throwing around silly words like love. Do you think he would be throwing such sentiments around if he knew you were a cop?" Yixing flinches, daring to look up into Mr. Li's eyes. Mr. Li responds by kicking him again in his unprotected stomach. He crouches and grabs Yixing by the hair, dragging him until he's sitting almost upright. "Look at that," Mr. Li says. "Do you remember him?" The body that Mr. Li is showing him isn't moving, but Yixing doesn't think it's dead. He narrows his eyes, his vision swimming, but he can just barely make out the face—Mr. Park. "He made a very interesting discovery after he was asked to leave the city. We were all very concerned when Kris acted so rashly for a no-name server in one out of dozens of nightclubs." Mr. Li lets Yixing drop back down to the floor. "Imagine my surprise when I find out that the punk kid who I just questioned turns out to be a cop. I am, actually, very impressed with your poker face." He punches Yixing hard across the cheek, and Yixing rolls with it, gritting his teeth against the screaming pain. "A cop. Fucking my son. And for what? What do you think you can do with him? He's nothing. You won't get anything out of convicting him. You think he can give you information on me? No. He has nothing. How long were you going to use him before you realized that he had nothing to give you?" Yixing tastes blood in his mouth and he rolls onto his back. In his pocket, he can feel something small and solid. He tries to extract it without squirming too much. His fingers close around it—his box cutter—and he almost cries out in relief. The bindings on his wrist are plastic, and they take time to work through, but Mr. Li is distracted. His distaste for his son is apparent, kindling his rant, and Yixing's wrists free with an almost inaudible snap. He keeps the blade of the box cutter drawn and waits for Mr. Li to come close again. "Unfortunately, I can't have a cop in my organization, even one as simple as you. If you don’t mind, I think we can finish this rather quickly." Mr. Li has a knife in his hand, much larger than Yixing's puny blade. He swallows thickly; he's going to have to time this just right. Mr. Li grabs him by the hair and wrenches his head back, exposing his throat. He brandishes his blade and leans forward, and Yixing moves quickly, stabbing the box cutter into Mr. Li's throat as hard as he can. The grip in his hair releases and the knife falls down onto his chest. Yixing grabs it while Mr. Li is struggling with his wound, and Yixing scrambles to get back, away from him. Mr. Li lunges, the bloody box cutter in his hand, and Yixing holds the knife forward to let Mr. Li fall on it. It's messy, and it's not quick. When Yixing jumps to his feet, Mr. Li is still making these horrible sounds, the pool of blood beneath him growing quickly. Yixing doesn't stop to look at it. The men guarding Mr. Park's body are staring at Mr. Li, stunned, and Yixing dives for them while he can. He grabs the gun nearest to him and turns the safety off, wielding it in front of him. The man who is still armed rises to shoot him and Yixing beats him to it. The other man puts his hands up and backs away. Yixing's eyes dart around for the exit, never leaving the man too long, and he backs his way towards it, not turning away until he's out the door. They're not in a part of town that he recognizes, but they are still in town. Many of the surrounding buildings are abandoned, with broken or boarded-up windows and graffiti covering their walls. Yixing stumbles along the street aimlessly, still running on adrenaline, until he gets to a pay phone. He digs through his pocket, pulling out two more coins that he needs, and he drops them onto the sidewalk, shoving the rest into the slot with trembling fingers. "Hong Lei," he sobs into the phone as soon as his handler picks up. "Come get me. I need—I need out. They know. I need…" "Yixing, where are you?" Yixing shakes his head, too wound to realize that Hong Lei can't see him. "Please, just come. Before they—I left one of them alive, I didn't know what to do, I just—he might, oh god, he might call for more, Hong Lei, I need backup—" "Yixing, slow down. Call emergency services. Can you do that?" "I don't have enough change." Yixing looks around wildly for a street sign, and he parrots off what it says when he finds one. "Please, send someone." Hong Lei promises until he hangs up the phone, and Yixing sinks down to his knees. It's dark out, and the few people that are venturing these dirty sidewalks pay no attention to the boy covered in blood with a gun in his lap. Even the first squad car that responds to his call blows right by him. He stands up and staggers to the curve, catching it on its way back. It's a young officer inside, one that he's never met, and a man that he worked with himself a few times, when he still had patrol duties. "Yixing," the older man says, "what the hell happened?" Yixing just points him to the building as another squad car pulls up, Hong Lei's car close behind it. It's Hong Lei who finally gets him to explain the bodies. Mr. Park is taken in for medical treatment in handcuffs, while Mr. Li and one of his cronies leave in body bags. The man that Yixing left alive has long since fled the scene. Hong Lei asks if Yixing can describe him, but Yixing finds that he can't. "This wasn't supposed to happen," he says miserably when Hong Lei ushers him into the passenger seat and drives him to the hospital. Yixing insists that he's fine, but Hong Lei knows better than that. His side is aching, his head is aching, and his wrists still have friction rubs from his ties. "I wanted the job because I knew that I could do it without killing anybody. I wasn't—this wasn't supposed to happen." "Yixing, you did the right thing. It came down to your life or theirs, and you made a tough decision, but you made the right one." Hong Lei's voice is firm, not allowing for any dispute, but Yixing continues to doubt himself. He sinks low into his seat, his eyes hot and blurry. "That's Yifan's father." Hong Lei pulls into a parking space and starts to get out, absently asking, "Yifan?" "Kris," Yixing corrects. "Kris' father. The man running the triad is Kris' father." He pauses for a moment, lowering his eyes. "Was Kris' father." Hong Lei settles back into his seat, watching Yixing steadily. Yixing squirms uncomfortably, certain that Hong Lei is seeing right through him. He looks out the passenger window to avoid looking at his handler, and he doesn't feel any better at all when Hong Lei says, "The chief isn't going to like this." "What are you going to tell him?" "Only what you've told me." Yixing looks over, eyes narrowed. Hong Lei's face is serious, and a little bit angry. "So if you fucked him, don't say anything. I don't want to know." "I didn't fuck him," Yixing says after a moment. Hong Lei, who doesn't believe him, scoffs. "Good. That's what we all want to hear." In the examination room, with Hong Lei at his side waiting for the doctor, Yixing is told that he's going to be removed from Hong Kong. Stabbing the leader of the largest organized crime syndicate in the city has a way of making a name in the worst way possible. Mr. Li is dead, but there's still enough of a case to bring half of what they wanted to court. It could be enough, just to put the HKPF back up on its feet in this fight. They're sending him to Guangzhou, to keep him safe. Hong Lei tells him that they may move him again at a later date, but right now, they're just trying to get him out of Hong Kong. Yixing asks for a day before he goes, but they don't even let him go back to his apartment. He wonders if Hong Lei has thought this through and is doing it on purpose; the quicker he's out of here, the more impossible it is to see Yifan, just one last time. He doesn't even know how he would explain himself after killing the man's father. In the end, he resigns himself to the new city, his new name, and his fake papers. Maybe it's a blessing. Yixing has a lot of time to think in his new apartment. He doesn't even get out for the first few days. Hong Lei keeps him updated about the case; they're constructing it at quickly as possible, but it's a tedious process, stringing together something impenetrable. Even with Mr. Li gone, the triad still has money and connections. The government is ponying up for a superlative prosecution team in anticipation of a reputable defense. What this means for Yixing is that he spends the first two days in his new apartment sitting in the dark with all the lights off and all the blinds drawn doing nothing. He thinks about Yifan, who he isn't allowed to call. He thinks about what he would say if he could, about how Yifan would react if he knew, about how things might have gone differently for them. On the third day of his confinement, he leaves in the evening, stepping down to the corner store to pick up a new carton of milk and a six-pack that he's indecisive about actually drinking. He puts the milk away as soon as he gets in, and he leaves the six-pack on the counter, circling around it before retreating to the couch in the living room in defeat. By the fifth day, boredom is starting to win out over depression and Yixing wanders around the city with his hood up and a surgical mask on. Hong Lei calls him on his cell and Yixing ducks into an alley where the sounds of the city are muffled. The case is coming along smoothly, and Yixing should be able to come back any down now to give his testimony. Hong Lei also asks him how many times he's gone out and if he's being stupid about it. Like a son caught lying to his father, Yixing hangs his head and mumbles an apology. Hong Lei laughs at him and tells him to be on good behavior. "Just a few more days," Hong Lei tells him, and after a beat of hesitation he says, "We were thinking about setting you up in Changsha after this whole trial is over." Yixing's throat tightens with gratitude, and he says that he would like that. He walks straight back to his apartment after that, using the GPS on his phone to get there. The door is unlocked when he arrives. Yixing admits to having a hazy memory sometimes, but he knows that he locked his door before leaving today because he struggled to find the right key for several minutes. He stands in the hallway, debating whether or not he should enter. It's all too likely that whoever is waiting behind this door is here to kill him. If the triad suspects that the HKPF has a case against them, then killing Yixing would not only be a heroic vengeance of Mr. Li's death, but a very pragmatic way to cripple the coming litigation as well. But a smaller, louder part of Yixing's heart is wondering if Yifan isn't behind this door. The longer he stands there, the stronger his indecision becomes, and it's in a moment of wild impulsivity that he opens the door and walks in. Yifan is sitting at the kitchen counter, playing with the label on an unopened beer bottle. Yifan looks up, eyes wide with surprise before he settles back down into his cool, composed mask. "You know you're supposed to refrigerate these, right?" Yixing, unsure of his welcome in Yifan's arms, making a space for himself there. Yifan doesn't respond for a moment, and Yixing is about to pull away, but before he can, Yifan is holding him close, tucking Yixing's face into his chest. He lifts his head to speak but Yifan kisses him, and this is so much better than anything he could have said. He opens to it, fists curling in Yifan's shirt. Yifan breaks the kiss to trail them back across Yixing's cheek, right across a tear track and into his hairline. Yixing noses at Yifan's throat, breathing the scent of a lost lover. His knees are weak, and the only thing holding him up is Yifan. Yifan moves them to the couch. Yixing collapses on it too easily, his body weak with elation. His head is swimming and he's certain that he must be dreaming. When he says so, Yifan takes his hands and shakes his head. "You're not as hard to find as you think," he says with a smile. Yixing frowns. "What do you mean?" "You think that I don't have friends here, in the city where I was born?" Yixing's brow raises, mouth opening in surprise, and Yifan laughs at him, at once sounding both bold and relieved. "I've been looking for you since the day you were taken from me. It's easier to get things done now, with my father out of the way." Yixing lowers his eyes, stomach clenching uncomfortably. "What's happened since I left?" "Nothing." Yixing looks up into Yifan's eyes, surprised to see him smiling. "One man can't bring down an empire, Yixing. Everything is the same as it was, except for…well, the obvious." Yifan gestures confidently towards himself. Yixing lowers his eyes again. "I didn't want to kill him," he says quietly. "I didn't want to kill anyone, but especially not your—" "Do you think I'm upset about that?" Yifan's mouth is a soft, straight line, his eyes questioning when Yixing looks into them. He looks away again and Yifan lets go of his hand. "I'm not. I'm only upset that you lied to me. I understand, I do, but you were still lying to me the whole time. Did you think I wouldn't have helped you? That I would ever put you in danger? That I would have stopped you—" "I didn't plan to kill him," Yixing snaps, looking up into Yifan's eyes. "Well your bosses wanted you to. And I wanted you to." Yixing falls silent, reaching out for Yifan's hand and receiving it. They sit like this for a long while, Yixing rested comfortably in Yifan's embrace. It's the first time he's breathed easy in almost a week, and he savors it for however long he has it. There will come a time when Yifan has to go back to run his triad, and Yixing will have to testify against him. Yixing closes his eyes against the idea, his chest tight at the thought that in a few months' time, he could be standing in a courtroom opposite the man he loves. "Come back to Hong Kong," Yifan says after awhile. Yixing looks up at him, startled out of his self-pity. "Come stay with me." "I can't." "Why?" "My chief needs me. For the trial." "Against my men." Yixing tries to pull away from Yifan in his shame, but Yifan holds tight. "Your father's men," he amends, knowing that it might not be any less personal. "Who have been disposed of and replaced by my men." Yixing looks up at Yifan, who is smiling happily. "Then men you've been building a case against have been taken care of. There's nothing left to do about it. Come stay with me." "The case could still stand. You're still the leader of a mob. You traffic, you launder money, you—" "Yes, Yixing, we already know that. Are you coming with me or not?" Yixing balks, staring into the easy confidence in Yifan's face, only barely noticing the fine line of tension around the edges of his mouth. He's nervous, Yixing thinks. He doesn't know if I'll say yes. Yixing isn't sure if he should. "I'm supposed to stay here. I'm safe here." "I'll keep you safer." Yifan's answer is immediately, his frown offended. "You think I wouldn't keep you safe?" Yixing laughs weakly. "You're right," he says. Of course he would. Yixing grapples for excuses like he's grasping at straws, and in the end, he comes up with nothing. If he goes back to Hong Kong with Yifan, his testimony will be endangered. It will be too easy to question his allegiances. But Mr. Li is dead and the triad is under new control and his case will only really hurt one man. To be fair to Yifan, Yixing's allegiances have changed. He thinks of Hong Lei, how disappointed he'll be. It hurts, but not enough to eclipse the hope that Yifan gives him. He thinks of the chief, and can't feel any guilt at all. "Okay," he says, because he can’t think of a reason not to. More importantly, the best reason to say yes is sitting right in front of him, nervous in way that only Yixing can see. Nervous because Yifan loves Yixing, and Yixing has the power to hurt him. He doesn’t want to. "Okay?" Yifan looks surprised, and he doesn't bother to mask it this time. Yixing smiles at him, holding his face in his hands when he says, "I'll go with you." "You'll go with me," Yifan parrots back, his expression still shocked. Yixing laughs at him, and Yifan yanks him to his feet to bend him back and kiss him. Yixing accepts it, knowing that letting this fire burn between them is probably the most good he'll ever do for himself because Yifan, a bad man, says the word love and means it. THANK YOU FOR READING! Please leave a comment HERE or on the Livejournal post.

Comments

[ilangilang]

The story is beautiful. I love how they unconditionally forgive each other.