Work Text:
Possibly owing to the fact that he was raised more by a cat than a father, Zhao Yunlan arrived at the ripe old age of 30 almost completely undomesticated. He was happy to let debris build up until his counters were buried and his floor was almost covered; only did laundry when he’d exhausted all options in his wardrobe; almost never cleaned more than to stuff garbage in a bag and wash out a few glasses once a month or so.
He was aware, of course, that it didn’t reflect well on him. But he never had anyone whose opinion he valued to contend with, before.
Now, with Shen Wei fired like an arrow straight into his heart and stuck there, he’s slowly trying to be better. Because Shen Wei is tidy as a rabbit that carefully grooms its face and whiskers, and proud as a bower bird that constructs and keeps a perfect home for its mate. Zhao Yunlan is only capable of buying a house – which he does – but making it a home... Well. It’s a work in progress. He’s had a lifetime to dig in happily to his slovenly ways. Excavating himself isn’t so easy.
1: BEDROOM
Zhao Yunlan has been pulling a string of all-nighters, tied to a series of crimes that blossom like putrid skunk-cabbage in the dark. In the day there’s the usual work of SID to chase after, so he’s been sleeping on his office sofa and slowly twisting his spine into a corkscrew. Shen Wei has been coming in in the morning, all crisp linen and ambergris-scented skin, to bring him clean clothes and a lunchbox filled with tempting little treats for his recalcitrant stomach. It’s not like he’s suffering. He’s just tired, is all.
They catch the Jiangshi on a sunny Wednesday morning. Zhao Yunlan oversees the exorcism. Shen Wei is busy at the University, and isn’t really needed anyway. Zhao Yunlan assigns xiao Guo to do the paperwork and Chu Shuzhi to clean up, and drags himself home for some sleep.
He rolls into the house feeling like a used dishcloth; somehow both gritty and greasy. Despite the clean clothes he hasn’t washed properly in days, just splashed in the sink at 4 Bright Avenue. Once home, the first thing he does is strip off his clothes and shower. He lingers under the jets of hot water, soaping himself up and watching the suds bubble down the drain. He shaves, cleaning up his beard carefully, and washes his hair with Shen Wei’s shampoo just so he can smell him here in the steamy shower.
Afterwards, he dries off with one of the big Turkish towels Shen Wei brought to the home – along with his beautiful self and a full set of immaculate cookware. It always feels luxurious, the slight scrape of the fabric against his skin, the length that falls almost to his knees and absorbs the water almost as soon as it touches him. Pink and clean he emerges in a waft of steam to pad barefoot through the house. In the bedroom he pulls on a soft t-shirt and a pair of boxers. He grabs a glass of cold water, drains it, then climbs into bed.
He and Shen Wei bought the bed together, as a replacement for his old metal-framed spring-mattress which he had picked up second-hand and lovingly ground into collapse with his slutty ways. Shen Wei had been adorably reticent about trying out the mattresses at the store – Zhao Yunlan had displayed no such shame. The new bed is a queen, enough space for both of them but also not so much space that he ever risks rolling beyond Shen Wei’s touch. Zhao Yunlan never wants to be out of reach of the love of his life.
The bed is Shen Wei’s to care for, because they both know Zhao Yunlan won’t. Now, in early spring, the house is still cool and there’s a heavy duvet on it, the pillows duck-down and plump. Zhao Yunlan rolls in and pulls the hefty covers over him, snuggling into the cozy cocoon.
He’s always worked long hours at an exhausting job. Before, living alone in his trash heap of an apartment, rolling into bed at the end of a long night worn-down and sometimes drunk, it had been enough just to have the bare necessities – mattress, sheet, blanket.
Now, as he stretches, he feels the cotton sheets stretched completely taut, without a single wrinkle. They have just the right amount of grain to them – smooth but not slippery, and newly-washed. They smell of sunshine, fresh and airy, as though Shen Wei had hung them in a forest grove to dry. The duvet is well-stuffed and hefty, and he rolls himself up in it, enjoying the extravagance.
It’s a simple pleasure, this bed with its clean linen and quality bedding. One Zhao Yunlan would never even have considered capable of bringing him joy, of lightening his mood by one iota. But now, as he buries his nose in the pillow just to smell the delicious clean scent of the case, he feels inexpressibly cozy. Wonderfully pampered.
Closing his eyes, he settles in to sleep.
***
He’s wakened sometime later. He’s far down the well of slumber, muzzy-headed and unsure whether it’s day or night. There’s a weight beside him and he throws an arm over his head and looks up.
Shen Wei is there, smiling at him, the sunlight glinting off his glasses. He reaches down and presses his palm to Zhao Yunlan’s cheek. “Sleep well?” he asks.
Zhao Yunlan has no idea how long he’s been sitting there, watching him. He knows this is a thing Shen Wei does, sometimes. Drinking Zhao Yunlan in, as though he were sustaining himself on his mere presence. He stretches and smiles, rolling his cheek against Shen Wei’s hand like a cat might. “’S nice here,” he says. “Xiao Wei should join me.”
Shen Wei gives him a look filled with fondness, soft as the dawn. “I have to make dinner. You need a warm meal. Come join me when you’re ready – if you stay there all evening you won’t sleep tonight.”
“Such a slave driver,” murmurs Zhao Yunlan.
In a minute he’ll get up and go to keep Shen Wei company in the kitchen. In a minute he’ll tease him into sharing a snack, and will soak in the sight of him in short sleeves and a vest while he whips up delicious dishes with ease.
Just for the moment, though, Zhao Yunlan starfishes in the bed, and enjoys the crisp press of the sheets against his body. Delightful.
2: DEN
Shen Wei has a study in the new house.
It’s a study, not an office. Shen Wei is not the kind of person to have an office – with a phone, and a printer, and a nest of cables connected to a flashing modem, and a metallic beast of a filing cabinet that nips at fingers when improperly closed.
He has a study. There’s a big, weighty, wooden desk that took three men to move, and about which Zhao Yunlan holds many filthy fantasies that he has not quite worked up the swagger to implement. The chair is leather, deep and well-padded with a scent that lingers on Shen Wei’s clothes after he’s been in it. There are long shelves covering the walls. Each one is a work of art. They hold books, carefully arranged, but only a few in small groups. Between them are pieces of pottery, sculpted stone and marble, and even metalwork pieces. They look almost more like a museum than a private room, and Shen Wei keeps them immaculately dusted. There’s no sense of busyness, nothing crammed or crooked or dog-eared.
The room exudes calm reflection, a sense of power and poise. Everything about it feels deliberate, studied, meticulously planned and beautifully executed. Zhao Yunlan comes to linger like a shadow in the doorway, sometimes, when Shen Wei is working. Just for the privilege of watching him grind ink on his ancient stone well, of watching him dip his long-bristled brush in dark ink and paint perfect calligraphy on snowy paper. Or sometimes, when he’s feeling more modern, make careful in-line commentary on printed essays with coloured gel pens. That’s when Zhao Yunlan loves him the most, seeing him wrestle with contemporary technology to produce results his students will appreciate.
(This is a lie; Zhao Yunlan loves him the most doing anything – everything. All the things. Just simply being there. He loves him.)
All of which to say – Shen Wei’s study is a shrine to peace and perfection.
Zhao Yunlan’s den is decidedly not that.
Although he would be quick to point out that it is both their den, the truth is it’s Zhao Yunlan’s space. He doesn’t have a home office because he hates bringing work home, and would rather stay at 4 Bright Avenue past midnight finishing up a case than cart it back with him and have its weight hanging from his shoulders in the house he shares with Shen Wei. But the den – with its large-screen TV, PlayStation, surround speakers, and comfy couch is primarily his space. There’s a wide shelving unit on one side that holds a bunch of his crap – DVDs, books, a few board games, a collection of free weights and resistance bands, some decorative tumblers, some tumblers he actually does use, a decanter of scotch, and so on.
When they set up the shelving unit, Shen Wei asked if Zhao Yunlan wanted help in arranging his possessions. Zhao Yunlan felt perfectly capable of lining up things on a plank, so declined. And it’s fine. Really. It’s… a bunch of stuff on a plank.
But when he looks at Shen Wei’s shelves, and is soaked in their tranquil calm, the transition to his collection of – mostly – junk is… harsh.
It’s Saturday morning, and Zhao Yunlan is full with warm crispy cong youbing. He comes into the den intending to do some exercising before going out for a run, just to limber up.
Half an hour later, Shen Wei finds him sitting on the arm of the sofa, staring at the shelves.
“Zhao Yunlan?”
He looks up; smiles thinly. “Hey babe.”
Shen Wei, in slippers and the soft pants he wears only at home, the ones that move deliciously under Zhao Yunlan’s palms when he allows himself to get handsy, comes to stand beside him. “Is something wrong?”
“Nah. No. I just – at the old apartment, all my stuff was all over the place. Higgledy-piggledy. You know? And I was fine with that – I didn’t even notice. But now when I see how nice and organized you keep your stuff, looking at this mess feels… exhausting. Like – I didn’t even know it was weighing on me. But it is?”
“You know I don’t mind how you keep your things,” begins Shen Wei, slowly.
“I know. But you keep everything else so clean – the kitchen, the bedroom, your study. I feel like a slob in comparison.”
Shen Wei frowns. “It wasn’t my intention to –”
“Baby, I know. I’m not complaining! Or – I guess I’m complaining about me? It’s – when I’m in your space, I feel so calm. Your personality really shines through. And I never minded feeling cramped and cluttered before, but it’s starting to bug me.”
“We could rearrange the shelves,” suggests Shen Wei. “It’s not so hard to be organized, Yunlan.”
Zhao Yunlan slowly tilts his head up at his lover, considering. “Kinda sounds like you just want me whipped, xiao Wei,” he says. And then, grinning, “I’m not objecting. You get the leash, I’ll let you hold my chain.”
Shen Wei sighs. Zhao Yunlan laughs, standing. “No? Alright. Maybe xiao Wei can just help me clean up my mess, hm? You’re very talented in that department. I love receiving your special attention.” He lets a little heat sink into his gaze, lips crooked. Shen Wei gives him a long, thoughtful look. Slowly, he nods.
“Alright. Just let me get changed.”
“Changed? Why? Where are you going?”
“This,” says Shen Wei, nodding at the rack of shelves, “needs more than reordering to fix.”
***
They drive to the market district, narrow streets filled with food vendors and peddlers selling cheap goods outside of narrow, deep shops with dusty windows full of all sorts of treasures at all sorts of prices. The alleys are hung with lanterns and lucky signs; the windows are pasted over with sun-bleached posters advertising beer and soft drinks. It’s a mixture of old and new, fake and legitimate, and Zhao Yunlan is charmed by the idea of Shen Wei spending lazy summer afternoons here looking for hidden gems, fingers slick with dust and mouth thin from reading the inflated price listings.
“I thought some boxes,” says Shen Wei, as they peruse shadowy shelves illuminated by bulbs with douli-like shades. “And possibly some weights to serve as book ends.”
Zhao Yunlan doesn’t really see his vision, but he lets Shen Wei sniff out rattan boxes, fake leather-bound boxes, boxes in the shape of books and others wrapped in paper so thick it’s almost like cloth. Then there are weights – brass candlesticks, stone eggs, carved foo dogs with their curling tails, matching statuettes of philosophers and maidens in faded colours.
Zhao Yunlan isn’t a shopper by nature. Bargaining, now, he enjoys that – the vibrant, social dialogue as he tries to coerce vendors into knocking huge sums off their prices. It doesn’t take long before he’s starting to feel exhausted by the rows and rows of knickknacks and clutter. Not unlike the way he feels in his own den. But Shen Wei is indefatigable, and refuses to allow him to choose something that’s not quite right because it’s easy.
“You wouldn’t settle for it in your job, or with me,” he says, taking a brass palm tree statue out of Zhao Yunlan’s hands and putting it back on the shelf. “Apply the same rigour here. You’ll see these things every day.”
So he lets Shen Wei usher him into and out of stores for hours, until the sun is sinking low and the food vendors outside are lighting grills and warming meat for the dinner rush.
Eventually they emerge, arms stacked with purchases. They load them into the car, then buy dinner from the street vendors to take home in waxed cardboard containers – steaming jiaozi, ro jia mo with its succulent shredded pork, xinjiang skewers coated with sesame seeds, and spicy shao kao with crunchy lotus root, eggplant and potatoes.
At home they eat first, trading bites, sharing plates. Although eating together is a must for them, they usually eat home-made food; tonight has a bit of a festival night atmosphere. The boxes are emptied, leaving behind just greasy bottoms and dabs of dark sauce. Zhao Yunlan drinks a bottle of Singha, kept cold for him in the fridge by Shen Wei who Zhao Yunlan suspects of enjoying the taste of it on his lips – a little forbidden delicacy.
After dinner, they relocate to the den – Zhao Yunlan with a second bottle of beer to tone down his doubtless forthcoming impatience with Shen Wei’s need for abject perfection.
Together, they pack his DVDs into two large boxes – he found a set covered with thin herringbone-patterned wood in a dark hue, faintly lustrous under the room’s halogen lights. The exercise equipment goes in another box on the bottom shelf, actually an old-fashioned travel trunk complete with brass corners and studs. His books are tidied and properly sorted by Shen Wei, and propped up with rough granite blocks seamed with gold. The tumblers and decanter are re-arranged on a flat silver tray, as if ready to be circulated at a dinner party. His other bits and bobs are reorganized by Shen Wei’s astute hand, according to some sense of aesthetics and feng shui Zhao Yunlan can’t quite see but still appreciates.
When they’re done, the shelves radiate quiet sophistication. They look is heavier, more masculine than Shen Wei’s delicate porcelain and statues. Something weighty, expensive.
It soothes the niggle of frustration, of distraction Zhao Yunlan’s been feeling in this room almost instantly.
“Huh,” he says, staring at the shelves. “Who knew tidiness was actually good for something?”
“Zhao Yunlan,” sighs Shen Wei, looking at him. Zhao Yunlan grins, and cocks his hip to the side.
“Aiyo, Shen Wei. Don’t worry, I won’t insult your most precious god.” He takes a sip of his beer, and slants a sideways glance at his lover. “How can this poor initiate thank such a prodigious master?” he asks, with a grin.
Shen Wei turns and puts his fingertips against Zhao Yunlan’s jaw, just a light touch, stopping him where he stands. He leans in and kisses him, teeth scraping lightly over Zhao Yunlan’s lower lip. Heat curls upwards from his groin, arousal spreading heavy wings inside his belly. Zhao Yunlan leans into the embrace, and Shen Wei licks into his mouth just delicately. Tasting.
Zhao Yunlan smiles. “Love, let me take you to bed.”
Shen Wei hums against his lips, and takes the bottle of beer from him. He sets it down on the far end of the shelf in an empty space – somehow, it fits there like the space was made for it.
“Gladly,” he says, and allows Zhao Yunlan to pull him away.
3: KITCHEN
Zhao Yunlan’s favourite room in the house is the bedroom, in part because he genuinely enjoys lounging around in bed and being a consummate lazy-bones when he can – and, obviously, in part because it’s his favourite place to make love with Shen Wei.
He knows his lover is equally appreciative of their bedroom – he picked out most of the furniture, after all, as well as the sage green of the walls – but he still suspects that if forced to choose at gunpoint Shen Wei would place the kitchen first in his heart.
If Shen Wei decorated the bedroom, he designed the kitchen. The house was still under construction when Zhao Yunlan transformed his savings into a deed (one of the few kinds of alchemy that actually works) and consequently Shen Wei was able to choose the cabinetry and layout. It’s a large, open, corner room with wide windows that welcome in the syrupy afternoon sun. The cooking surfaces are spacious; the appliances are all new. Shen Wei’s gleaming, lovingly coddled pans hang from a frame Zhao Yunlan mounted over the island, reflecting the light in warm tones of copper and steel.
The house is conveniently close to a market, as well as grocery store that Shen Wei deigns acceptable. As such, Zhao Yunlan is surprised to find Shen Wei reading books (books!) on gardening with an eye to constructing a wooden planting trough.
“I thought,” his lover says, charmingly, with soft eyes, “I could put it against the window and grow herbs. I never had a place to call home long enough before to allow me to do so.”
Zhao Yunlan’s petty comments about buying herbs at the market with greater convenience and cheapness die on his tongue. Instead he fucks off to the home improvement store and buys wood and screws and stain and brushes, and comes home and assembles a three-tier herb shelf for Shen Wei. It fits perfectly in the lower half of the window, still allowing a clean line of sight overtop into the small private garden.
It’s worth it, to see the joy with which Shen Wei lovingly pots and positions his herbs. They’re small, little green bundles of leaves and fronds, and he mists them once they’re nestled in new dark earth so that they gleam with dew.
And, well, if Shen Wei is extremely generous with his thanks afterwards – that’s an added bonus.
***
Zhao Yunlan doesn’t cook. He doesn’t enjoy it, and he’s not good at it. In the Before Days, he lived primarily off take-out, supplemented by cup noodles and other ready-made dishes. Since Shen Wei swept into his life and replaced the sad, wilted contents of his fridge with fresh groceries and home-cooked meals, he’s never even considered it.
But it’s crunch time at the university – Shen Wei has undergraduate student grading to oversee for five classes, plus three PhD students defending their dissertations and a crop of Master’s students having a collective panic. He’s been rushing around all week, barely with enough time to throw together something as simple as egg drop soup.
And the thing is. The thing is, Shen Wei is perfectly aware of Zhao Yunlan’s terrible eating habits. He knows if he doesn’t cook, Zhao Yunlan will either a) eat crap or b) not eat. Zhao Yunlan doesn’t want to be this person, but it’s the person he’s been for 30 years and he’s working on it, really he is, but big ticket items like Not Touching Boobytraps come first. He knows it stresses Shen Wei out, heaping additional responsibility onto him beyond the simple joy of cooking for his lover.
So tonight, Zhao Yunlan is Going To Cook.
He’s not an idiot. He’s not making anything difficult, like xiaolongbao or shaomai. Just stir fry, and rice, some steamed bok choi with hot oil, maybe some pickles.
He fills the rice cooker and turns it on – one thing he doesn’t have to worry about. Even Zhao Yunlan can make rice in a machine. Next he pulls up a series of cooking tutorials on his laptop, open on Shen Wei’s pristine granite countertop. Making the pickles is incredibly easy; he just thinly slices carrots and radish, and puts them in a bowl with a splash of vinegar. The bok choi is easy too – boiling water goes in the pan, then the steamer, then the lush-leafed greens.
Finally, he slices up pork tenderloin in long thin strips and marinates it following another tutorial. He chops up an assortment of crunchy vegetables, and heats oil in a pan. Onions and mushrooms go in first, then the meat and the marinade, then the rest of the vegetables. It spits and steams nicely, a big fragrant cloud billowing up. As he cooks, the recipe calls for fresh chives, chopped thinly. Zhao Yunlan didn’t buy any herbs.
But, of course, he didn’t need to. He goes over to the herb shelves and breaks off a handful of chives, bringing them back to slice up on his board. They leave his hands smelling rich, green, a slightly oniony scent. It’s strangely satisfying, using something he – well, xiao Wei – grew himself. While he stirs the steaming pan, he keeps lifting his palm to his nose, just to smell the lingering chive aroma.
Shen Wei arrives home not long after, rushing into the kitchen with his briefcase still in hand, suit jacket askew from ripping off his overcoat. He stops dead upon seeing Zhao Yunlan calmly mincing cilantro for a topper.
“I – Yunlan?” Slowly, he puts his briefcase down before slipping around the island to look at the set of covered dishes waiting there. “You cooked?” The incredulity in his voice isn’t kind, but Zhao Yunlan doesn’t mind it. He would react similarly to receiving an email from Shen Wei.
“Yeah. You’ve been working so hard lately, baobei. I didn’t want you to have to worry about it when you got home.”
Shen Wei lifts a hand and slips a finger beneath the strap of the apron Zhao Yunlan is wearing over his t-shirt. It’s Shen Wei’s apron, of course. It made him feel a little like a kid putting on a superhero’s cape; like he was roleplaying the person he wanted to be. Seeing the way Shen Wei’s gaze darkens, his mouth going a little slack with want, prompts Zhao Yunlan to realise he may not be the only one with kitchen fantasies. Shen Wei’s very close, the sheer magnetism of his presence rapidly whiting out Zhao Yunlan’s higher thoughts. He leans in, so that Shen Wei’s finger presses into his chest, a warm line over his heart.
Shen Wei closes his fist around the apron string. Ducking his head to rest on Zhao Yunlan’s shoulder – either overwhelmed or exhausted, or both – he presses his lips to his bare neck. “A-Lan,” he breathes, a hot caress against Zhao Yunlan’s skin. His heart is throbbing, tight and heavy, hunger kindling a fire in his veins.
“Xiao Wei, if you start that the food will get cold,” he says. He can’t believe he’s saying it. He’s never, never prioritized food over sex. This is what comes of cooking. Make one meal and suddenly you start caring about this shit.
Shen Wei lifts his head, eyes shining. “Of course. How could I insult the chef?”
“Baby, is that what you think when I make you drop everything to fuck me?”
“No,” lies Shen Wei.
Zhao Yunlan raises a finger. “Ah?”
“Mostly no,” corrects his lover, with a smile. Zhao Yunlan shakes his head and lifts the covers off the plates. Using his hand, he fans the newly-chopped cilantro over the stir fry. The smell is fresh, green, earthy. They set the table together, quickly, and sit to eat.
Compared to Shen Wei’s cooking it’s basic and inelegant. But Zhao Yunlan doesn’t have a complex palate; the flavours are strong and everything’s fully cooked. He’s surprised how much flavour the fresh herbs add, giving a fulsome body to the stir fry. To him, toppings have always been dried powder that came out of a plastic sachet. It’s both homey and satisfying to make something with home-grown ingredients.
Of course, there are other satisfying features as well. Shen Wei’s smile as he eats; the click of his chopsticks as he comes back again and again to the shared plates for more.
And, later, his hot mouth licking the zest from Zhao Yunlan’s fingers as he gives him his reward.
4: BATHROOM
Zhao Yunlan ordered the basic amenities of the house at a very specific point in time. To be exact, it was when he was absolutely sure that he was head over heels in love with Shen Wei, but before all the mysteries between the two of them had been cleared up. He had been in not just a generous mood, but one of idealistic courtship, convinced that nothing was too good for his paramour.
(Admittedly, this attitude has not changed with the denouement of the mysteries surrounding their pasts.)
In practice, what this means is that when he was given the choice of bathtubs, he chose the largest and most luxurious. Because his husband-to-be clearly deserved such a thing. Zhao Yunlan himself doesn’t take baths. He doesn’t have the patience for it, prefers to splash around in the shower and emerge with more time to spend elsewhere. But it seems like the kind of thing Shen Wei would enjoy, reclining in a steaming tub, fresh-cut eucalyptus hanging from the showerhead to release its scent in the humid room, his pale skin flushed a pretty pink.
So Zhao Yunlan adds a pricy line item to a list of many others, and doesn’t think about it much for a while. Even after they move in, he doesn’t pay much attention to Shen Wei’s bathroom habits. Despite being almost feral in bed at times, he can be a shocking prude at others, and definitely is not the kind of partner who would be open to leaving the door open while in the washroom.
He does notice that Shen Wei procures a small selection of amenities – a bristle brush with wooden handle, some bottles of fragrant oil, buttery soaps wrapped in nicely-patterned paper not so unlike the blocks of ink he sometimes buys from the city’s one really high-class stationary store. It makes him vaguely pleased, to know that Shen Wei must be enjoying the bathroom enough to purchase these things.
Beyond that, he doesn’t really give it any thought at all.
***
It was already a cold spring evening before the rain started. Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei are investigating rumours of cursed rituals in a field outside the city, and while they do in fact find some evidence of bones and blood and charms, mostly what they find is soaking, squelching mud.
And then the skies open up.
Zhao Yunlan is in a jean jacket and a t, and he is soaked within minutes. His boots are coated with grime and wet dirt, much of which splatters up his pants. The fabric holds the chill in the air like an ice pack, plastered across his skin. His sweat is the only warm thing about him, and it feels almost equally disgusting.
Shen Wei, in a knee-length car coat, weathers the storm only slightly better. His leather shoes are quickly ruined, and he has a black look on his face as he stalks through open fields.
Things come to a head when a youchu emerges from the wet, clinging mud like a bone come unburied. It rips itself out right at Zhao Yunlan’s feet, and as he springs backwards to avoid its claws he trips and lands flat on his back, air crushed out of his lungs.
In the next instant the youchu is headless, its blood poisoning the air. Shen Wei swings his sword to flick off the clinging mess and disburse the miasma, before banishing it.
Zhao Yunlan, bruised, filthy and embarrassed, swarms to his feet with an outburst of profanity. “These fucking hicks, how dare they pollute the spiritual energy enough to summon that fucker! Where’s the shrine? It’s gotta be around here.”
They spread out through the cording rain, until Shen Wei finds a small unobtrusive set of stones above an earthen mound. Zhao Yunlan, unable to stop shivering now, plods through puddles and muck to reach him; when he gets there he produces a set of waterproof talismans from his wallet and sets the pagan shrine ablaze. Whatever monstrosity was being worshipped here, its powers are at an end now.
It’s typical of the day that it takes some of his most expensive talismans to deal with things.
When the paper finally burns dry, a light haze lifts from the field. The day is still grey, colourless and sopping, but at least there’s no malignancy bubbling amongst the muck.
Shen Wei turns to him and, with his thumb, wipes a splatter of mud off Zhao Yunlan’s cheek.
“Can we please go home?” asks Zhao Yunlan, leaning into his touch. He feels chilled, almost numb, and exhausted. Shen Wei nods. Placing his hand on Zhao Yunlan’s shoulder – unnecessary but grounding – he transports them both across the valley, to their house.
***
Shen Wei, who is nothing if not precise, brings them directly into the bathroom. Which means Zhao Yunlan is able to see just how pallid he looks in the bright LEDs, his lips tinged with blue and his black hair pasted to his skin. His shirt is stuck to him like wet rice-paper, perfectly moulded to his chest. His back is unspeakable.
Shen Wei – who is a little less wet beneath his coat – leans forward to turn the bath on.
They strip out of their filthy clothes, boots on the floor and cloth in the sink. Zhao Yunlan is still shivering, his hair dripping icy drops onto his shoulders and his skin clammy. He reaches for a towel but Shen Wei catches hold of him instead, chafing his arms. “Not the clean towels, a-Lan,” he murmurs, breath hot against Zhao Yunlan’s ears. He whines piteously, but Shen Wei has extensive experience dealing with his wheedling ways. He’s too miserable even to be turned on by the expanse of skin Shen Wei is displaying, now that he’s stripped out of his own soaked garments. Shen Wei wets a hand cloth in the hot bath water and hands it to him to rinse himself with while the bath fills; while Zhao Yunlan washes his face and neck with the delightfully heated cloth, Shen Wei pours in oils and little crystalline bath salts.
The bath is full soon after, and Shen Wei draws him in. Although it’s large for one it’s small for two, and Zhao Yunlan sits in the circle of his lover’s arms, leaning back against Shen Wei’s firm body. The water feels silky from the scented oils, a delicate fragrance of pine and lavender. Shen Wei picks up a wet cloth and runs it over his arms, up his chest, warming Zhao Yunlan as he reclines against him.
Zhao Yunlan hasn’t bathed with anyone since he was a child. It’s surprisingly intimate – both soft and tender, the warm water relaxing his muscles and leaving him supple. Shen Wei gives him gentle kisses as he washes him, just light touches of his lips to Zhao Yunlan’s ear, his temple, the bolt of his jaw. He lets his hands bring pleasure with them, touches Zhao Yunlan’s nipples, the sensitive skin of his belly, even his flaccid member. Not to arouse him, just to let him enjoy this a little more. Zhao Yunlan thinks he may be revelling in his unique right to do this, to fondle Zhao Yunlan, to care for him.
It’s the kind of delightful thing Shen Wei would do.
The water ripples against his limbs, against his torso, its touch satin-smooth. Zhao Yunlan tilts his head to kiss Shen Wei’s mouth; he misses and gets his cheek instead. He laughs, the sound deep-throated in the small space. “Aiyo, xiao Wei, you’re so good to me. This is nice. Why haven’t we done it before?”
Shen Wei’s arm tightens over his waist, fingers stroking his water-warmed skin with a slow rhythm. Steady, like his heartbeat. Zhao Yunlan feels suffused with feather-edged love, stuffed full of it, ruffling and rustling inside of him. It’s a sweet, aching feeling, like the first bite of sugared candy after a long fast. “Baby,” he murmurs for no real reason, just the need to say something. To gentle Shen Wei, to praise him. He stretches against Shen Wei’s chest, draws in a deep breath, enjoys the sensation of Shen Wei’s body against his. “Fuck, I love you.” He feels a little heady, can’t tell if it’s the heat from the water or simply intoxication.
Shen Wei turns him, careful as he might teach a twining pea plant to find its string, and kisses him properly. Zhao Yunlan hums happily and shifts to ease the angle, water washing past and the tub making a squelching sound as his ass moves against it.
They embrace languidly, steam slowly dissipating, heat fading from the bath. It’s a honeyed sensation, thick and syrupy.
Eventually it grows too cold, silt lining the bottom of the tub. Zhao Yunlan makes a regretful noise as he hauls himself out, towelling off before turning to dry Shen Wei’s hair for him. It leaves him looking like a tousled owl, soft and slightly ridiculous. Zhao Yunlan’s heart throbs. Shen Wei must see something in his look, because he backs Zhao Yunlan into the vanity and pins him there to kiss him, towel dropping away so their naked bodies press together. And just like that, the heat is back in the room. The earlier languor is replaced, so seamlessly it feels like a dream, by burning want.
“Take me to bed, sweetheart,” says Zhao Yunlan, arching against him. “We can clean up after.”
Shen Wei does.
It’s only much later that they remember they forgot to let the water out of the tub.
5: BALCONY
In his old apartment, Zhao Yunlan didn’t have a balcony. What he did have was a rickety fire escape that was only used by Da Qing to make a quick exit when his master brought home a one night stand. Zhao Yunlan would never even have considered using it in his everyday life, and possibly not even in the event of a raging fire – it looked like it was held together by paint and rust.
The new house has a balcony. It faces south, like all good balconies should, and soaks up plenty of sun. Shen Wei has added some ceramic pots filled with seasonal flowers, and a miniature maple tree that whispers in the breeze. Zhao Yunlan’s only addition was two comfy chairs, for weekend lounging.
But of course both of them are permanently on call, and their free time is perennially trampled by unexpected emergencies or just – in Shen Wei’s case – student melt-downs. Zhao Yunlan thinks that Shen Wei does spend some time on the balcony when he’s not around, tending to the plants and possibly even doing some reading in one of the well-padded chairs. He himself, though, defaults to spending what spare time he has either fooling around with Shen Wei, or watching TV.
He doesn’t mind. When he passes the door to the balcony and sees the flowers bobbing and bowing in the breeze and the chairs warming in the sun, it’s just a reminder that he could take advantage of it if he wanted. It’s a luxury that’s available to him, when he’s ready to use it.
***
Zhao Yunlan’s job usually requires him to spend a significant portion of his time outside, hunting down ghosts and curses. The one exception to this is the end of the fiscal year, when the entire office is required to make a careful audit of their paperwork for the past year – vacation time, sick time, pay, bonuses, expenses, and so on. And Zhao Yunlan, as director, is required to review all of it and sign off.
Outside, spring is blossoming into summer. The trees have unfurled their new leaves and are flashing them with riotous joy; a wealth of flowers is bursting into bloom – stately irises and frothy peonies, fragrant lilies and modest little impatiens. The sun is warm, and the wide blue skies lift the spirits of city residents who have been waiting for this through a long chill season.
And Zhao Yunlan is stuck inside. All day, every day. Reading line after line of tedious, boring paperwork. He’s gotten to the point, as he always does, where he doesn’t even sign his name anymore, just draws a quick circle to stand in for it. Shen Wei gives him grief for it, but Shen Wei isn’t trapped in a windowless office signing stacks of paper for days on end.
When he finally, finally breaks free on Friday afternoon, the sun is still up. He comes home early, picking up a sweet yam-flavoured breadstick to snack on from a street vendor, and prowls through the empty house. Really he wants Shen Wei here with him, so he can whine about his endless week and wheedle kisses out of his lover. But Shen Wei’s still at the university, doubtless working hard.
Zhao Yunlan opens a beer and takes it out onto the balcony, which is soaked with sun. He’ll have a drink, then maybe play that new FPS he’s got loaded on the PS5.
The chair is delightfully hot beneath him, radiating warmth collected from the pooling sunlight. Zhao Yunlan sinks back into the cushions and takes a sip of cold beer. Wonderful. Perfect. There’s a little bee buzzing in the flowers, industriously collecting pollen. In the trees nearby birds sing, a lively chorus. Zhao Yunlan takes another sip of beer, and puts the bottle down. It’s bright, and he didn’t think to bring his sunglasses out with him. He’ll close his eyes. Just for a minute.
Just a minute…
***
“Yunlan?”
He wakes with an intake of breath, feels his body warm and relaxed. He opens his eyes and for an instant doesn’t know where he is – then he sees the fluttering maple leaves, and remembers. Friday. Balcony. Beer.
Shen Wei is standing beside him, looking down. There’s a fond expression on his face, something both pleased and also wanting. Zhao Yunlan reaches up, intending to draw him down for a kiss and a cuddle.
Shen Wei freezes in his arms, looking to the side.
There are other houses, of course, that look out over theirs. An apartment block further south that puts part of the garden in shade. Other people; other lives. And Shen Wei here beside him on his own balcony, ridiculously shy.
“Baby,” says Zhao Yunlan. “You can kiss me in our own house.”
“I could, in the house,” agrees Shen Wei, weaselly as only a linguist can be.
“You know what I mean,” pouts Zhao Yunlan. He tugs again; Shen Wei resists. “Who’s going to see? What does it matter if they do? If they know that I love my beautiful, talented, sexy-ass husband?”
Shen Wei colours, just lightly, like a dab of petal powder on his cheeks.
Zhao Yunlan rises in the chair, pressing closer to his lover. “Xiao Wei is so possessive of me,” he says, grinning. “Shouldn’t they know what you do to me in our house? Hm? Shouldn’t they see our nice building, and know that you fuck me senseless here?”
“Zhao Yunlan,” hisses Shen Wei, but beneath the mortification Zhao Yunlan thinks he sees a spark of interest.
“Or do you want them to think that we’re just roommates? The police director and the professor who chose to live together for convenience’s sake? Plenty of people do, you know. Especially same-sex couples. Cheaper rent, good location – ah,” he breathes, as Shen Wei’s eyes flash, outrage kindling.
“If anyone thinks,” says Shen Wei, voice very low, “that my feelings for you are so shallow, they must be more insensible than stone.”
Zhao Yunlan raises his eyebrow. “Must they? When you’re so guarded with your touches? When you won’t even kiss me on our own private balcony? When –”
Shen Wei catches him by the elbows and lifts him from the chair as if he weighted nothing. He pulls him into his arms and kisses him. Deep, dirty, his tongue messily demanding entrance and plundering Zhao Yunlan’s mouth. It sends delicious shivers of want down Zhao Yunlan’s spine, his body tingling. He moans, wet and wanton, and feels Shen Wei clasp him tighter.
When they break apart he’s dizzy – the heat of the kiss stacked atop the heat of the sun soaked into his skin by his unexpected nap. He grins drunkenly at Shen Wei, and presses his thigh between his legs to feel his surprisingly firm arousal. “Oh, is this doing it for you? Secretly, you like the idea of fucking me here in the open, where anyone could see? You’d like them to know I belong to you – body and soul? That you’re the only one I let in my bed, between my legs, in – Shen Wei!”
Shen Wei has lifted him by the thighs, slotting his legs around his hips. Like a warrior plucking a prize from the battlefield, he bears Zhao Yunlan inside, out of the hot blinding sun, and into the cool shade. Where he can take his time in demonstrating his claim to Zhao Yunlan’s body with exactitude.
Afterwards, Zhao Yunlan puts on one of his sluttiest Ts – stretched neck, clinging material – that displays the many marks Shen Wei left on his neck and shoulders. Shen Wei makes iced green tea, and assembles a tray of sesame cakes.
They sit outside on the balcony together in the setting sun. And when Zhao Yunlan hooks his ankle around Shen Wei’s, tugging his foot closer, Shen Wei doesn’t stop him.
BONUS + 1:
When Zhao Yunlan tells Shen Wei he bought him a house, Shen Wei isn’t flattered, or gratified, or even pleased, really.
It’s just another sign that some long-buried part of Kunlun’s soul still calls out to him, a necessity rather than a choice. Zhao Yunlan is intoxicated by him and has no idea why and Shen Wei wants him so badly that the ache is like a railroad spike through his chest, but he also knows that Zhao Yunlan never fell in love with him. He remembered it, and that’s something different entirely.
He realises, much later, what a disservice this does to Zhao Yunlan. How disrespectful it is of his force of will, his personality, to assume he has no agency in the decisions of his heart.
That realisation is reinforced every day, by Zhao Yunlan’s smallest actions. By finding his lover cooking for him; by Zhao Yunlan drinking an extra beer just so Shen Wei can taste it in his mouth. By teaching Shen Wei how to love in this strange modern world, coaxing his carefully-controlled fire out of him so they can both enjoy his ravenous instincts.
“You know,” Zhao Yunlan says to him a year after they move in. They’re sitting on the balcony; Zhao Yunlan is scrolling on his phone while Shen Wei does some marking. “The market’s really hot right now. If you wanted more space, more privacy, given that you could transport us both into town in the blink of an eye… we could sell this place and buy something outside of town.”
Shen Wei’s response is automatic, without thought or pause. “You bought this house for me. I never want to leave it.”
Zhao Yunlan blinks at him, before his slack mouth lifts into a wide smile. “I had no idea you were so attached to it.”
Shen Wei stares back. “Of course I am. It’s our home. I would never scorn something you gave me.”
His lover drops his phone onto the small teak table and hauls himself out of his chair. He leans over Shen Wei, shading him from the sun, eyes sparkling. “Oh? And what else can I give xiao Wei? Maybe something to make his morning more enjoyable?” His leer is purposeful.
Shen Wei lifts himself, catching the side of Zhao Yunlan’s face in a soft caress and tugging him in to fit their mouths together. It’s a sweet, lingering kiss – all torpor and tenderness. The lewd look falls off Zhao Yunlan’s face, replaced by an aching kind of rawness. “Baobei,” he breathes, when they break apart.
Shen Wei smiles at him. “Let’s enjoy the sun a little longer.”
To his surprise, Zhao Yunlan lifts a cushion from his chair and drops it on the ground. He settles himself atop it, nestled at Shen Wei’s feet, head resting against his knee. Shen Wei smiles, and begins lightly combing his fingers through Zhao Yunlan’s fine, silken hair.
In the trees, the first cicadas of summer start to sing.
END