It's just an itch to scratch.
Wing-ching doesn't think much about it. or rather, he's not supposed to think much about it. He's had lovers before, back when he was an undercover cop. Back when he was in the police academy. Back when he was... Never mind. Men, women. Iris. Men. Mostly Iris. Ah Chun. No, that should be Yau Sir, who had told him that he would never leave him alone, it would be dangerous as fuck as a UC but he'd have his back. Yau Sir who gave him that fucking watch with a GPS tracker and had always shown up at the most ridiculous moments to get Wing-ching on his knees and push his cock into his mouth, or to get Wing-ching to bend over and spread his legs for him.
Why are you so tense? Come on, your life is my life. Trust me on this. I've got you.
And Wing-ching remembers. It comes and goes, in fleeting moments, when he bares his teeth and grins and shows criminals that yes, fucker, I don't have a fucking last finger. It's there, fire spreading under his sternum, the phantom pain of a pinky that doesn't exist any more.
You had it easy, Kuk Wing-ching. Ah Chun, no, NO, Yau Sir got himself executed by a fucking piece of shit, you traded one tiny finger for his life.
Sometimes his eyes lose focus during cases, when his fingers twitch, in memory of something that doesn't exist any more.
When Sheung Sing asks, Wing-ching laughs, diverts his attention by mentioning horses that he's going to bet on. Sheung Sing who has stuck with him ever since he had returned to the force. Sheung Sing who's now his sir, who he'd follow to the ends of the earth and take bullets for. Sheung Sing, who lets him crash at his house. He'd give anything, everything to stay under him.
Wing-ching does, actually. Stay under Sheung Sing, quite literally, braced against the sofa with his thighs pressed together and slick with lube so sing can push his cock between his thighs. Wing-ching honestly doesn't see how he'd be able to let anyone fuck him the way Yau Sir used to, but this, with Sheung Sing gripping his hips and grunting, cock sliding against his balls, one hand reaching forward belatedly to touch him, hesitant. It isn't even the first time Sheung Sing has touched him, but every single goddamn time Sheung Sing touches Wing-ching's cock like he's asking if he's alright with this, if he wants to be touched like this, if this is all good. Fuck, fuck, okay, okay. He wants this. Needs Sheung Sing's hand wrapped around his cock, hard and aching for release. Wing-ching's breathing is shaky, his fists are clenched against the faux leather of the sofa and his forehead is beaded with sweat, trying to keep his thighs together. His singlet clings to him like a second skin, his Hawaiian shirt discarded on the floor.
(If this was Yau Sir, Wing-ching would expect fingers to thread through his too-short hair at any moment, to pull his head back and leave his neck bared for a kiss, or something sloppy to that effect, but this is Sheung Sing, and Sheung Sing is, well. He's here because Hiu-yee isn't. They're close, but not close. Like he was even close with Yau Sir anyway. That was Iris. Always Iris.
When Sheung Sing's close, he gets Wing-ching to turn, to lie on his back. To bring his legs up to his chest, baring everything. his hard cock, flush against his stomach, singlet riding high exposing more of his skin, his balls, his asshole and for a moment there's a lump in Wing-ching's throat because oh god, is Sheung Sing going to fuck him, is this oh god oh god ohgodohgod fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck fuck—
Sheung Sing comes all over Wing-ching's cock. His balls. His stomach. Wing-ching doesn't even dare to look. his eyes are squeezed shut. All he hears is Sheung Sing's panting, and in a split second he isn't even sure if he's in Sheung Sing's flat any more or if he's still a goddamn UC scared shitless because how the fuck is he going to survive someone from the triad walking in on a police officer fucking him senseless like he's a cheap whore—
And then there's a warm heat enveloping Wing-ching's cock, tongue rubbing against the underside and one hand cupping his balls, squeezing, just so, and then he's coming, coming so fucking hard and he's shouting and fuck fuck fuck fuck there are tears at the corners of his eyes, oh what the fuck.
It takes a while before Wing-ching can open his eyes again. There's the whirring of the ceiling fans, and there's Sheung Sing looking at him with a characteristic frown, washcloth in one hand.
'I'll take that,' Wing-ching says, tugging the washcloth from Sheung Sing's hand to no avail. Sheung Sing's dressed already, in a t-shirt and boxers. How long has he been lying on the sofa like this, in nothing but a soiled singlet with come all over him and probably bawling like a fucking baby?
'Let me,' Sheung Sing says, settling down next to Wing-ching. he drags the washcloth over Wing-ching's skin, slowly cleaning him up. 'Do you want to talk?'
'It's been a while,' Wing-ching manages, avoiding Sheung Sing's gaze. Fucking bullshit, he had just sank to his knees three days ago in the toilets at the station to suck Sheung Sing off because he had needed it, needed the feel of cock filling his mouth, stretching him open and he didn't even fucking know why.
Sheung Sing hums.
Maybe it's sex. In the absence of love then, sex will fill it. But there's love, isn't there? Wing-ching can see it in Sheung Sing's eyes, glittering dangerously as he stands up for Wing-ching, be it for when he had just gambled and gotten into shit, or at work when he had needed a cover.
(Remember, Kuk Wing-ching. You have no control over who gets to live and who gets to die. When you gamble, you have no control over whether you win or you lose. Remember, remember. Never forget. Yau Sir died for you and you had no fucking choice.)
The phone rings, a much needed relief. Sheung Sing gets up to answer, and from what Wing-ching hears of his conversation, it's probably Ching Ching, his daughter.
'I have to go,' Sheung Sing says, after he's hung up.
'I'll lock up,' Wing-ching says, motioning for him to leave.
Sheung Sing stops, lingering by the sofa. 'You can always talk to me.'
Wing-ching doesn't even know why the fuck he had reacted the way he did.
(Or maybe he does know, in his heart of hearts, because that was one of the things Yau Sir had liked to do back then, come all over him and he'd say something stupid like how he's marking him as one of his own, still a police officer, and lick him clean later on and he hadn't even known why. He had been his handler, just his goddamn handler. Then came the lingering touches, heated glances and then Wing-ching couldn't ignore it any more when Yau Sir had kissed him hard and groped him through his jeans and it was fucked up how he wanted, needed more. And somehow the whole thing had turned into a goddamn mess and when Wing-ching thinks back no, fuck no, he had never loved Yau Sir or desired him romantically but fuck, somehow, somehow, sex had gotten into the equation and fuck. oh fuck.)
'Ching Ching needs you,' Wing-ching says, smile taut. And to think that he had just pretended to be Ching Ching's father a few days ago at the parent-teacher meeting. God, what the fuck is he even doing.
Sheung Sing looks at him. He nods, then heads for his room to dress up.
Wing-ching lies there on the sofa, gripping the washcloth in his hand. His knuckles are white, and there is water dripping on to the floor. He's still lying there clad in nothing but a singlet long after sing leaves. At least Sheung Sing had the decency to pick up his Hawaiian shirt, using it to cover him up like it was a makeshift blanket, saying that he would catch a cold if he didn't dress up.
The words linger in the air, unspoken. Wing-ching doesn't need Sheung Sing to say it anyway, because he already knows.
You need me too.