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The guy comes in on the tail end of the morning rush, and Xue Yang is too buried in curry bowls and green smoothies to do more than rubberneck. He sits in the no-man’s land between Xue Yang and Su She’s section—the table either one of them picks up, depending on who has the time.
Shit.
The front shutters are open, sunlight turning the café to a chiaroscuro study—half light, half shadow. Outside on the street, a couple people toss a football back and forth like this is an eighties movie. The soundtrack doesn’t help. It’s been the oldies station all week, and if Xue Yang has to hear “come on eileen” one more time he's going to kick out a window.
He deposits the curry and smoothies at table eight, then goes to grab a replacement spoon for a girl at table four. This is the second one she’s dropped. If you’re going to come in still drunk at ten in the morning, at least have the decency to order something you can eat with your hands.
He glances over his shoulder to where the guy is unpacking a thin grey laptop and looking around conspicuously for a waiter. Meng Yao says every guest needs to have a mineral water and a greeting within half a minute of sitting down. Xue Yang doesn’t care about Meng Yao’s rules, but Su She does. Which gives Xue Yang only a couple more seconds.
They’re understaffed today—someone out sick and one chick with a broken foot stuck shelving in the back. Su She is filling up sugar shakers with Stevia behind the counter. Xue Yang reaches around him to grab a fork, in the process nudging one of the open shakers just a couple inches to the left.
“Hey, did anyone—.”
Su She turns and sends the sugar flying, a wave of artificial sweetener washing over the counter.
“God DAMMIT!”
Su She is loud enough that all the staff and half the customers look his way. He colors, ducking behind the counter to continue to swear silently.
“Damn, Su She,” Xue Yang says. “You stoned or something?”
“Fuck you. I don’t know why you’re gloating, this just means more work for you. Go grab table sixteen while I clean this up.”
“No problem.” Xue Yang hears footsteps behind him. Shit. Did someone see that?
He braces himself for an earful, but it’s Song Lan working the bar today. Song Lan is like Switzerland—landlocked and neutral. He hates Xue Yang’s guts, but he won’t rat him out. Meng Yao hired him because he’s hot and quiet; he hired Xue Yang because hot and mean.
In all things, balance.
Xue Yang smirks and Song Lan scowls. Song Lan cares deeply about this job; Xue Yang could care less if he lost it today. But Song Lan is a barista. He’s a mixologist. He cares about his craft. Xue Yang is some dirty little out-of-towner who blows the boss in the back room. At least, that’s the rumor.
“You need something?”
Song Lan’s scowl groes, if possible, even deeper. “You’re in the way.”
Xue Yang steps aside, brushing past Song Lan to trail an errant finger over his waist. Song Lan tenses up, but he doesn’t say anything. Xue Yang wonders how hard he’d have to push to get him to retaliate. He wonders often and creatively.
He’s so flushed with satisfaction over annoying Song Lan off that he almost forgets the guy waiting patiently at table sixteen. A present, just for him. He grabs a menu and a bottle of water and walks over. He does not miss the way the guy’s eyes follow his progress. So: not straight. Good to know.
Not that heterosexuality is a hard no. In Xue Yang’s experience, if a dude takes the time to explain he doesn’t fuck guys, he wants to be convinced.
He’s handsome, but that’s basically meaningless around here. A little clean for this part of town, a little starched. Not that anyone who comes in here is genuinely hard, but most of them have pretensions. Messy hair and ripped up jackets, combat boots designed to look broken in. This guy wears a pale blue button up and slim jeans, hair styled down, a little feathery around his ears. There's a beautiful doe vulnerability in the way he moves, and his wrists just look so, so breakable.
Xue Yang loves breaking things.
“Welcome to Café Mente, I’m Xue Yang.” He slurs his way through the greeting. “I’ll be helping you out today. Have you been here before?”
The guy shakes his head. “My agent recommended it to me. I’m not sure why.”
“Maybe they thought you could use a little more mindfulness.”
“Hmm?”
“That’s what the name means.” Xue Yang flaps a hand toward the menu. The typeface is so flowery it’s almost impossible to read. “It’s Italian for mind.”
“Ah, I see.” The guy smiles. “Yes, maybe. She’s probably right. Couldn’t we all?”
Xue Yang resists rolling his eyes. This guy is neither old nor white enough to be the target of the bullshit they serve up here, but he seems eager to choke it down anyway. Well, whatever. Corniness doesn’t have an age requirement. And Xue Yang doesn’t need him to be cool, just look as good naked as he does with clothes on.
He leans on the table. “What’s your name?”
A slightly raised eyebrow. “Is that part of the mindfulness?
“Sure.” Shrug. “Whatever the fuck.”
The eyebrow climbs even higher. “It’s Xiao Xingchen.”
“Well, Xiao Xingchen. Since this is your first time here, it’s my contractual obligation to tell you that here at Cafe Mente we’re motivated by positive affirmations.” He over-pronounces every syllable. Meng Yao always says he’s not cheerful enough. Bitch. “We invite our guests to order by reading out the item. For instance, the Easy. You’d say…“I am Easy”.”
He fully expects to be called on the bullshit foaming from the corners of his mouth, but when Xiao Xingchen says, “Oh? I don’t see that one on the menu,” Xue Yang can’t detect a hint of guile.
Definitely an idiot.
“I guess they must’ve taken it off.”
“Well, I think I’ll have a cappuccino. I’m not feeling particularly confident or humble or…fulfilled enough to try any of the food.” He smiles with one side of his mouth, as quick as a mirror-flash, and Xue Yang’s stomach flips over. There’s something knowing in that smile, something razor-keen and honed to a fine edge.
Then Xiao Xingchen’s mouth flattens and he gives him a polite nod, eyes dropping to his phone. By the time Xue Yang gets back behind the counter, he’s fully convinced he imagined that gleam in his eyes. Just another sucker. Fun for a night or two, before Xue Yang conveniently loses his number.
He smacks the ticket down beside the espresso machine. “Cappuccino for table sixteen.”
Song Lan blinks. Right, he doesn’t know any of the fucking table numbers. “The cute one in the button-up.”
“Hm.” Song Lan knocks a used pellet of espresso into the drawer.
“What?”
“Doesn’t look like your type.”
“Oh yeah?” Xue Yang leans back against the counter, nudging close enough that Song Lan has to brush his thigh every time he leans down to open the fridge. “How does he look, then?”
“Pleasant,” Song Lan says. “Quiet.”
Xue Yang crosses his arms. He’s got tables waiting, and they can keep waiting, because it’s not every day he can pull this kind of catty out of Song Lan. He just keeps winning today. “Come on. You know the quiet ones are the ones you have to watch out for. Just gotta get ‘em warmed up.”
Song Lan turns up the milk steamer to a shrill whine, and if Xue Yang had any social grace he’d take that as the end of the conversation.
He doesn’t. He waits.
“You would know, wouldn’t you?” He leans in as soon as the sound dies away. “I bet you’re a screamer.”
Song Lan bares his teeth. “You have no idea how to—.”
Xue Yang grabs up a tray of quinoa salad and shows him his back.
“Aren’t you scared of getting fired?” Nie Huaisang asked him last week, when he’d spent the better part of an hour flirting shamelessly with his older brother, who may or may not be Meng Yao’s secret husband. Jury is still out.
“I could drop this entire sangria pitcher in your lap, and Meng Yao would just check to make sure I didn’t get any on his shoes.
If Song Lan really has a problem with his flirting, he can quit.
He brings table two their salad, calls in a few more orders, then answers the phone to have an elaborate “who’s on first” discussion with an old woman about vegetarian options. Everything here is vegetarian, you old bitch. Yes, that includes the soup. Every fucking soup. He heads back to the counter to pick up Xiao Xingchen’s cappuccino, to find that Song Lan isn’t fucking done with it.
“What the fuck, it’s been like ten minutes.”
“It’s been three minutes.”
He doesn’t look around—he’s pouring milk with the same level of concentration some people use to do brain surgery. “Don’t jostle my arm.”
“Or what?” Xue Yang leans over his shoulder to discover him dexterously sculpting a cat’s face out of foam in an espresso cup, complete with snub nose and little whiskers. “No leaf?”
“Anyone can do a leaf.”
“You always do a leaf.”
“Today I’m doing a cat.” He places the cup on a saucer. The little face smiles cheekily up at the ceiling. “For table sixteen.”
Xue Yang considers smashing the damn cat on the ground, but that would be petty, even for him. Song Lan is just doing this because he called Xiao Xingchen cute. It’s not like he’s Song Lan’s type.
…Is he Song Lan’s type? God. He probably does like corny pretty boys who can’t detect sarcasm.
Tough fucking luck. Xue Yang saw him first.
He brings the cappuccino over and sets it down on the other side of the water carafe. This guy seems like the sort to just lose it at a cute cat made out of microfoam.
“Are you an actor?”
Xiao Xingchen looks up from his laptop. “Hmm?”
Xue Yang shrugs. “You mentioned your agent, so…”
That, and the fact that everyone in here is an actor. Xue Yang is an actor. In theory, at least. That’s what it would say on his tax return if he ever bothered to file one. And he supposes he has done some acting, but they aren’t the sort of movies you can put on a CV. Although it would still probably be better than petty criminal. Or waiter.
“I’m a writer, actually,” says Xiao Xingchen, gesturing at his laptop, like he thinks only writers have them.
“Anything I might have heard of?”
Xiao Xingchen wrinkles his nose in self-deprecation. “Probably not.”
Just another hack, then. Xue Yang won’t hold it against him.
He’s called away by another table, and when he finally glances back, Xiao Xingchen has discovered the cappuccino. He’s taking pictures of it like he’s never seen latte art before. Maybe he’s new in town. Maybe he’s from assfuck nowhere. Hell, maybe he’s from Xue Yang’s hometown.
The lunch rush arrives, banishing Xue Yang’s ability to make small talk. Meng Yao will put up with a lot, but ignoring customers in favor of ass isn’t on the list. By the time he gets Xiao Xingchen’s check, he’s exhausted and edgy and just wants to clock the fuck out. That’s why he almost misses it when Xiao Xingchen signs the check and stands up to go.
But no, that’s a hand. That’s a hand on his ass, for sure. He knows a hand on his ass when he feels one. He stands there in nervy shock, and by the time he shakes himself out of it, Xiao Xingchen is out the door and across the front lot.
Xue Yang trudges back to the kitchen. There’s still twenty minutes on his shift. Close enough.
“How’d he like the cappuccino?” Song Lan asks, uncharacteristically chatty.
Xue Yang yanks off his apron and balls it up. “Said it tasted like shit.”
-
Xue Yang lives a couple blocks from the café. It’s not much—just a shabby walk up with sticking doors and a window ac unit that drips coolant all summer long. Still, compared to his old place, it’s fucking palatial. Meng Yao let him move in last winter when his old building caught fire. Xue Yang wanted a place he didn’t have to share with forty kinds of insect life; Meng Yao wanted an apartment building he could burn down. Quid pro fucking quo.
Meng Yao isn’t around tonight. In fact, he’s here so rarely that Xue Yang is pretty sure this isn’t his only place. If he really is fucking the head of the Nie family, he’s probably got a villa in Calabasas. Xue Yang spent a couple days up in the Hollywood Hills once; he went home with some rich real estate developer and ended up hanging around at his party house for the weekend. The whole place made his skin itch. It was too clean.
Xue Yang orders takeout, then spreads himself out on the couch with his ancient laptop and attempts to cyberstalk Xiao Xingchen. Two hours and a carton of lo mien later, and all he’s managed to find is a locked Instagram account with a profile picture that might be him. This guy is a fucking ghost. What kind of aspiring screenwriter doesn’t have at least a twitter? A damn Linked-in?
It’s always possible he gave Xue Yang a fake name, but he honestly didn’t seem to have the self-preservation for that. He’s the kind of nice boy this town reportedly chews up and spita out. Xue Yang has spent the last few years making sure Los Angeles chokes on him on the way down.
But there was that ass grab…
It’s not the first time Xue Yang’s gotten groped on the job. He’s cute. He dresses less slutty than he actually is, but that’s still pretty slutty. But usually…he does something about it. Either breaks the groper’s wrist or drags them into the back, depending on what they look like. Anything besides just stand there like a dickhead.
There’s nothing on TV and Meng Yao hasn’t contacted him for an after-hours job, so he pulls up a porn video and tries to let his mind go blank. He pauses it thirty seconds in, because all he can think about are slender wrists and a pretty throat, and the way he’d blushed when Xue Yang had called himself easy. He can’t wait to show him just how fucking easy he can be, how easy it’ll be to get Xiao Xingchen screaming his name.
He barely gets his dick all the way out of his pants before his he comes thinking about Xiao Xingchen with his pretty pink mouth around it.
He doesn’t have another shift at the café until the end of the weak, and usually he’d be ecstatic to have a couple days without simping for tips, but the idea that Xiao Xingchen might come back when he’s not there, that Song Lan might sculpt him more animal cappuccinos, makes cracking skulls less fun than usual.
When guys watch Meng Yao glide in with nothing but Xue Yang—five foot nothing and a pretty face—they tend to get cocky. Nobody expects much from him. That’s what makes the crunch of bones really satisfying. It makes the blood spray over cement that much brighter.
This week, he can’t get his rhythm.
When he’s not on a job with Meng Yao, he smokes too much and messes around on the apartment roof. He even considers calling a couple of old numbers, but people don’t tend to answer the phone once they’ve known him long enough.
By the time Friday rolls around, his bad mood has solidified into a gravelly chunk at the base of his spine. It’s too fucking hot and he’s barely been sleeping.
He walks into the café to see a pert little ass in a pair of loudly purple jeans beneath a draped grey sweater, and his mouth starts watering. He hasn’t gotten laid in months, and he feels like a starving guy in one of those cartoons where everything starts looking like a giant hamburger, or something.
He stops dead. That’s Xiao Xingchen. That’s Xiao Xingchen with an ass like a ripe peach and sleeves that flop down over his wrists like a kid playing dress up. And he’s standing there at the counter, talking avidly to the barista.
Song Lan has his hair down today, long and swept to the side, highlighting the hard line of his jaw and the perfect eyebrows, the stern mouth. Except today it isn’t stern. The moody bastard is smiling, talking animatedly and moving his hands. He says something and Xiao Xingchen leans in. He giggles. Fucking giggles.
Xue Yang is gonna puke. He walks behind the counter and drops his bag, buckles smacking the fake marble with a loud clunk.
“Xue Yang.” Xiao Xingchen smiles brilliantly, like he hadn’t just been eye-fucking the most annoying person here. “Song Lan was just telling me about the specials.”
Xue Yang snaps his apron on over his head. “Song Lan doesn’t know the specials.”
He puts his hand on Song Lan’s back just to see him squirm like he’s covered in spiders. He manages not to spill everything he’s holding, but his spine locks up.
Xiao Xingchen's eyes flick between them, understanding blooming like a stain, but it's gone so quickly that Xue Yang could have imagined it. Xiao Xingchen takes himself back to his table--the same as last time, except this time Su She grabbed him up before Xue Yang got here. Dick.
"Making new friends?" He doesn't bother to keep the menace out of his voice.
"If I was," Song Lan says, wiping the condensation off a glass, "It wouldn't be any of your business."
"Everything's my business here, baby."
Song Lan snorts. He knows just as well as anyone what Xue Yang’s side hustle is, he’s just not afraid of him. It’s annoying. “We were just talking.”
Just a hint of defensiveness, but it’s the only opening Xue Yangs needs to get his hands in there and dig into the soft tissue. “What, you think he’s into guys who—.”
For a weird moment, Xue Yang’s mind comes up blank as he tries to think of an exploitable shortcoming. Like, obviously Song Lan has them. Xue Yang mediates on them constantly when he’s around, which is always. But they’re things that annoy Xue Yang specifically. Normal people wouldn’t care, because normal people are stupid. And Xiao Xingchen, despite his perfect ass and pretty mouth, definitely seems normal.
Xue Yang sneers. Whatever. He’ll just have to get in there first.
He does his sidework with even less focus than usual, before a guy comes in and orders the same kale salad he does every week. Xue Yang only recognizes him because he always makes a huge issue of looking over the menu for an agonizing minute and a half before getting the same old shit. Xue Yang repeats to himself how annoying it will be to have to look for a new place to live if Meng Yao fires him for breaking a customer's nose.
He puts the order for the salad in, before Su She grabs him to bitch about honey all over the countertop. Xue Yang gives him the finger and meanders over to Xiao Xingchen’s table. He’s typing on his laptop, biting at his bottom lip in concentration. Xue Yang wants to see what it looks like all swollen, and he pledges to find out.
But before he can say anything, Xiao Xingchen gets up and heads over to the restroom, leaving his computer and the rest of his shit just sitting there. This is a good neighborhood, but it’s still LA. Idiot.
Xue Yang pulls his apron off over his head. "I'm taking an early lunch."
He’s sure to make direct eye contact with Song Lan when he follows Xiao Xingchen into the bathroom.
He catches him as he's washing his hands, pretty fingers bare, rings lined up on the side of the sink. The bathroom smells like air freshener and weed. People come in here to vape.
"Hey."
Xiao Xingchen looks at Xue Yang in the mirror. In a strange trick of low light, his eyes are flat silver. "Hey." He doesn't look particularly surprised to see Xue Yang.
Then again, everybody pisses.
Xue Yang backs him up against the sink, and now Xiao Xingchen's eyes widen a little. “Xue Yang, what are you—.”
Xue Yang takes hold of his chin. “You know what I’m doing.”
“Aren’t you—.” Xiao Xingchen’s voice is full of breath. “Aren’t you worried I’ll report you to your manager?”
“Go ahead,” Xue Yang says, tracing a hand over his waist, feeling it tremble. “This job sucks, anyway.”
The trembling becomes more pronounced, and for a discomfiting second Xue Yang thinks Xiao Xingchen is laughing at him. But when he looks up, Xiao Xingchen’s face is soft and shocked, pupils blown wide. He makes a soft noise when Xue Yang kisses him, spine going rigid, before melting back into his arms.
I fucking knew it.
Xiao Xingchen’s lips yield underneath Xue Yang’s like fresh dough. Still, he doesn’t let him deepen the kiss, firmly holding his mouth shut against Xue Yang’s tongue. Unacceptable.
Xue Yang cups his jaw, exerting pressure until Xiao Xingchen's mouth opens with a little sigh. He licks deeper, pushing a thigh between his legs until he feels him start to rock his hips, desperately, like he can't help it. He kisses hesitantly but so hungrily—is it possible Xue Yang is his first kiss? No. That's fucking absurd, that's taking the fantasy a little too far. No way anyone who looks like Xiao Xingchen hasn't gotten his share of ass. But thinking about it makes Xue Yang's dick throb. Backing up some sweet little virgin wannabe screenwriter in his workplace's lemon-grass ass smelling bathroom.
A shrill beeping breaks him out of his reverie, and he lets go of the front of Xiao Xingchen's shirt. "The fuck is that?"
Xiao Xingchen blinks. "Oh, umm—."
"Do you have a fucking pager?"
"That's just the—." He pulls his phone out of his back pocket, delicate brows wrinkling as he checks his messages. "—Ringtone. Shit. I'm late." The bashful blush is gone, his breath even. He isn't even hard anymore. "Here." He reaches behind Xue Yang, who thinks he's going for his ass again.
But he just pushes something into his back pocket. "Call me."
And then he's gone.
Xue Yang finds himself alone in the restroom, staring at his own face, cheeks pink, hair disheveled. Blood oozes from the corner of his lip. Xiao Xingchen bit him, and he didn't even notice.
Very slowly, he reaches into pocket, drawing out a tasteful off-white membership card, with a name and a logo. A phone number is scribbled on the back. But it’s the logo that catches Xue Yang’s eye.
“You are fucking kidding me.”
-
Xue Yang used to go to clubs. When he was younger and he didn’t care what he took or who he took it from, as long as it got him high. Xue Yang likes being out of control, but dancing bores him. The tactile assault of bodies pressed up against him, groping hands, and wet breath makes him want to fight instead.
These days he spends enough time around junkies and gangsters—and guys who think they’re gangsters—to want to avoid anything harder than the occasional joint.
Or maybe he’s just getting slow in his old age.
But the point is, he doesn’t like clubs. They’re a waste of time and the cover charge is almost never worth it. If he wants a hookup he’ll go to a bar, or an app.
This is not that kind of club. That’s obvious when the first thing the bouncer does is try to take Xue Yang’s coat.
Well, not the first thing. The first thing he does is try to throw him out. Even after Xue Yang drops the name on the business card, the way the bouncer looks at him makes him itch to pull a knife.
He’d left both his knives at home on the same small table where Xiao Xingchen’s card had sat for a week after he gave it to Xue Yang.
Xue Yang had called him. Two days after the bathroom so as not to seem desperate. Xiao Xingchen didn’t pick up, but a few seconds later he received a text.
XXC: I know what I said, but it was an act of hubris.
XXC: Text me.
XXC: I don’t answer my phone.
XY: is this real
XXC: Is what real?
XY: you fucking know what
XXC: I suppose you’ll have to find out.
XY: when
XXC: I’m there most Friday nights. This coming Friday, in fact.
Xue Yang stares at the message for a long time.
XY: were you fucking with me the whole time
Xue Yang doesn’t even mean to send it. His hand is shaking. He’s fucking pissed. And when Xiao Xingchen doesn’t respond, he’s even more pissed. He doesn’t delete it; it’ll still show up in Xiao Xingchen’s feed, and he’ll look even more pathetic.
He spends all week telling himself he isn’t going. Then Friday night he gets an Uber uptown and stands across the street, sucking on a cigarette and trying to size the place up. An old brick building, wrought-iron gate and a valet stand on the curb. Absolutely reeking of old Hollywood money. Normally the only way he’d get in a place like this would be through a kicked-out window.
He doesn’t know what he’s expecting when the bouncer brings him upstairs. Maybe men in suits smoking cigars, like in a Regency-era Netflix show. But the decor is understated, even dull. Modernist furniture and black and white paintings. The room is barely lit and one wall is made entirely of glass, with a view of a mostly-empty dance floor on the level below. A fully stocked bar sits opposite a low leather couch. Xiao Xingchen is seated on one end of the couch, dressed all in white. White jeans, white sweater, white lace-up boots. He's on the phone, but he smiles and motions him inside. Xue Yang rolls his eyes. Xiao Xingchen indicates the space beside him on the couch.
"...Don't be absurd, of course they'll sign it."
Xiao Xingchen pats the leather with one long-fingered hand, switching the phone from one ear to the other.
"—Because I'm the one writing it. If I want him, they'll get him. Or they won't get me."
Xue Yang crosses the room in four wide steps.
"Well, then you'll have to tell them--."
He yanks the phone out of Xiao Xingchen's hand and throws it across the room. It hits the edge of the bar counter and spins off behind it.
Xiao Xingchen rubs the space between his brows. "Was that necessary? I was negotiating a deal."
"I thought you said you didn't talk on the phone."
"I told you I don't answer the phone." He smooths a bit of his hair back into place. "I placed that call."
Xue Yang’s breathing is heavy. It's hot in here. Doesn't a fancy fucking place like this have AC?
"You played me."
Xiao Xingchen leans back against the couch. "I have no idea what you mean."
Xue Yang takes a threatening step forward.
Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. “Sit down, Xue Yang. Or have a drink. I can call someone in, if you’d like a cocktail—?”
Xue Yang snorts and grabs for the bottle of the most expensive looking whisky they’ve got. He wrenches the top off and takes a long pull. Xiao Xingchen winces. He seems more concerned about the liquor than about being alone in here with a pissed off Xue Yang.
That pisses him off even more.
“You didn’t tell me you were famous,” he growls. “Shuanghua.”
Xiao Xingchen picks idly at the denim of his pants. “It would have been an odd way to start a conversation.”
Xue Yang sneers. He’s no movie-buff, but he’d have to be living under a rock not to know about the experimental filmmaker who swept the festivals last year. He’s remarkable for only using a screen name, and always sending someone to accept his awards for him. He’s said it’s because he values his privacy. But most people just assume it's to make himself more intriguing.
“An especially rude way to start a conversation with a waiter. I can’t be the only industry person you get in there.” He reaches out a hand, and it takes Xue Yang a beat to understand what he wants. He hands him the bottle.
“I understand that you’re angry with me, but I'm struggling to understand why.” He wipes off the mouth of the bottle with the edge of his sleeve.
“Struggling my ass.”
Xiao Xingchen’s throat works as he drinks. “I didn’t tell you any lies.”
“No, you just acted like—.”
“Like what?”
“A dumb virgin.”
Xiao Xingchen laughs. He looks delighted. “All I did was order a coffee.”
Xue Yang snatches the bottle back. He can’t even accurately sum up what’s got him so rattled. Just that he’s lived this long by being able to read people the second they’re in his sight line. He doesn’t like that Xiao Xingchen saw that and then decided to use it to play with him.
He shouldn’t have come to this fancy fucking place.
He hands the bottle back to Xiao Xingchen, who takes another delicate little sip and moves to give it back. Except he doesn't let go when Xue Yang takes hold of it, giving it a sharp little tug instead. Xue Yang isn't expecting it and he trips forward onto the couch.
"Fucking—." He's practically splayed in Xiao Xingchen's lap. "What are you doing?"
Xiao Xingchen's mouth is close enough for him to feel the words more than hear them. "You know what I'm doing."
The thing about Xue Yang is...he likes to fuck idiots.
Not stupid guys, necessarily. Just...basic. Basic doesn't ask where he grew up. Basic doesn't worry about where the scars on his back and shoulders come from, or why the cigarette burns on his thighs are so perfectly lined up. Basic doesn't follow him home and expect a repeat performance.
Xiao Xingchen isn't basic. Xiao Xingchen has a gaze like a razorblade. Like he can look at Xue Yang and see all the paths to the center of him. He probably hadn't been acting like a dumb little bitch. Xue Yang just saw what he wanted to see. Something easy. Like him.
He's bad fucking news.
Xue Yang kisses him anyway.
Even though he initiated it this time, it still takes Xiao Xingchen a few seconds to warm up. It’s like he’s sampling a swallow of wine before allowing the waiter to pour the full glass. Growing impatient, Xue Yang moves to his neck, making him gasp when he focuses on the soft place underneath his ear. He bites down hard enough to leave a mark, then switches to the other side to do it again. Xiao Xingchen's hands tighten around his waist, grinding him down on top of him, like he's positioning a toy. It sends something zipping hot up Xue Yang's spine.
He’s moving his hand between them to go for Xiao Xingchen’s fly, when someone knocks on the door.
“What the fuck? I told you, I don’t need a fucking cocktail—.”
Xiao Xingchen evades his lips. “Come in.”
Well, what the fuck ever. If Xiao Xingchen wants to get caught necking with some peasant, that’s fine. Xue Yang doesn’t bother to turn when the door opens, pressing his mouth back to the ball of Xiao Xingchen’s throat, feeling his pulse jump.
“Xiao Xing—.”
The voice is deep velvet, sliding warm, sickly fingers over Xue Yang’s ribs to fall with a drop into his stomach.
No, it can’t be.
“Song Lan.” Xiao Xingchen’s voice is a whisper against Xue Yang’s cheek. “Thank you for joining us.”
Xue Yang tries to yank away, but a surprisingly strong arm hooks around his waist, keeping him planted. His heartbeat is so loud in his ears it sounds bass-boosted.
Song Lan stands frozen in the doorway, eyes as round as espresso cups. He’s in all black, but a different kind of all black than at work. Tight jeans and thick-soled boots, and a ribbed tanktop that shows off the worked muscle of his arms. It’s strange, seeing him here. Beyond the clothes, Song Lan belongs at the café. He fits there. Seeing him here is like seeing a monkey at a supermarket.
“What the hell is this?” Song Lan asks, just as Xue Yang says, “What the fuck is he doing here?”
“I invited him,” Xiao Xingchen says, and Xue feels a little stab of vindictive pleasure at having his question addressed instead of Song Lan’s, even as he chafes at the answer.
“What? Why?”
Xiao Xingchen’s shrug is elegant. “Haven’t you ever—Song Lan, come in and sit down, don’t just stand in the door like that—haven’t you ever invited a bunch of friends to an event, just in case some of them don’t show up?”
“No,” says Song Lan, who doesn’t have events.
“No,” says Xue Yang, who doesn’t have friends.
Xio Xingchen’s mouth twitches. “I was hoping you would both come, if that’s any consolation.”
“It’s not,” Song Lan says.
A hot thread of anger curls through Xue Yang’s guts. How dare Song Lan be as annoyed as he is.
Xiao Xingchen’s thighs are hot underneath him, trembling like he’s trying to hold in a laugh. “I’m trying to win a wager against myself.”
“A wager?” Xue Yang and Song Lan say it together, layered in bass-baritone.
Xue Yang lets out a noise of disgust, pushing out of Xiao Xingchen’s grip, and this time Xiao Xingchen lets him go. His legs feel watery after being curled underneath him, and he has to catch himself against the bar. Song Lan laughs.
“Fuck you,” Xue Yang snaps. His hair sticks to lines of sweat on his neck. He wrenches his jacket off. He should have let the fancy fucking valet take it for him. Across the room, Song Lan still hasn’t shut the door. His eyes linger on Xue Yang, who feels a complicated pulse of rage and glee when he realizes they are watching the lines of perspiration trail down his arms.
Xiao Xingchen pushes himself up from the couch, brushing the creases out of his pants. The mark Xue Yang left below his ear stands out burning red in the mood lighting, the only indication that Xue Yang didn’t just hallucinate the last five minutes.
“Come inside, Song Lan,” Xiao Xingchen says again. “And shut the door.”
He’s not loud or threatening. But it’s not a request.
Song Lan comes in, and he shuts the door.
“Thank you.” Xiao Xingchen smiles at him as he goes behind the bar. “I’ll make you a drink. Sit down. Xue Yang, are you sure?”
Xue Yang’s eyes narrow. “Am I sure what?”
Xiao Xingchen trails a finger over the line of bottles, twitching his hands as he finds what he wants. “Are you sure that I can’t make you a cocktail?”
“You didn’t offer to make me a cocktail.”
“Hmm?”
“You said you’d call in a waiter.”
“Oh.” Xiao Xingchen sets a pair of martini glasses on the bar. “I’ve got a second wind, I guess.” He smiles.
He’s doing this on purpose.
Does Song Lan realize the two of them are being played? He’s sitting on the couch, arms spread casually along the back, eyes locked on Xiao Xingchen. He’s watching him with a hunter’s fascination, a hunger Xue Yang would never have imagined was possible. Song Lang has always struck him like one of those sexless Hollywood blockbusters where every character is impossibly gorgeous, but nobody ever gets in in.
“Whisky sour alright?” Xiao Xingchen looks up from beneath his lashes.
Song Lan’s voice goes rough at the edge. “You know me too well.”
Wait, what the hell. Have they hung out before, or is that just a line? Come the fuck on.
Xue Yang manages to dredge up a sneer from somewhere. “Maybe I’ll just leave. So far this place sucks. Service is terrible.”
“Don’t worry,” Xiao Xingchen says without looking up. “We’ll take care of you too.”
It’s the way he says it, the dirty little flash of pink tongue against white teeth.
He’s talking about Xue Yang. But he’s looking at Song Lan.
If Xue Yang does leave, the two of them are definitely going to fuck, and it pisses Xue Yang off almost as much as it turns him on.
He imagines Song Lan’s big hands around Xiao Xingchen’s waist. His arms holding him down. Xiao Xingchen’s sharp little teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder.
“Do you know who he is?” Xue Yang asks. Nothing. “Song Lan! Get your hand off your dick and answer the question.”
Song Lan blinks. His expression goes instantly stormy when he looks at Xue Yang, making a giddy excitement pulse through his blood. He never gets this much when he messes with Song Lan at work.
“Yeah, I knew who he was.” Song Lan’s gaze flicks back to Xiao Xingchen, who is carefully pouring into the two glasses. “What, didn’t think to ask when you were oozing all over him at Mente?”
“He blew smoke up my ass.” Xue Yang leans back against the glass window, letting the edge of his shirt ride up. “Said I wouldn’t know anything he wrote.”
Xiao Xingchen adds a cheery to each glass and picks them up. Xue Yang wonders if Song Lan can knot a cherry stem with his tongue. Xue Yang can.
“Do you know a lot of arthouse films?” Xiao Xingchen asks, coming around the bar.
“He doesn’t,” Song Lan says.
Xue Yang lets himself slide further down the glass. “Fuck you, dude. You don’t know anything about me.”
Song Lan looks him over from foot to head. It isn’t subtle at all, and it isn’t meant to be. “I know Meng Yao should have fired you a long time ago.”
“Be nice," Xiao Xingchen chides gently, handing him a glass.
Xue Yang stands back up straight, shoulders dragging across the window with a squeal. “Maybe I’m just better than you are, ever think about that?”
Song Lan’s mouth curls. “Better at some things, I’m sure.”
Xue Yang lets out a whooping laugh. He pushes himself off the glass, falling to his knees on the couch beside Song Lan. Song Lan is forced to raise his glass up over his head to stop it from spilling.
“Are you trying to say I can suck dick better than you?" Xue Yang rears up to take his drink out of his hand. “Because I know that’s true.”
Song Lan lets him have the drink to prevent their hands from coming into contact for longer than necessary. That’s right. Xue Yang isn’t scared of Song Lan. Song Lan is scared of Xue Yang. He licks the trail of spilled whisky running down from his wrist. Song Lan is watching him, he knows it. And he’s drunk enough to eat up the attention.
He takes a big slurping sip out of Song Lan’s drink. Song Lan makes a disgusted noise and reaches for him. “Give that back.”
“Make me.”
“You think I won’t?” Song Lan asks, voice low.
“What, you think you can kick my ass? Why, because you work out?” Xue Yang slides a hand up Song Lan’s thigh, unsubtle, like he’s rucking up a skirt. “You ever been in a real fight? You ever gotten blood on that pretty face?”
Before Song Lan can snap back, Xiao Xingchen gently removes the martini glass from Xue Yang’s grip and returns it to its owner. “I suppose that answers my question.”
Xue Yang strains for the whisky bottle, just out of his grasp in the middle of the carpet. “What question?”
“Whether the two of you are fucking.” He sits down on Xue Yang’s other side, wearing that smile again. The one like a razor blade. “Or just want to be.”
The two of them make identical noises of derision. “Song Lan doesn’t fuck,” Xue Yang says.
Xiao Xingchen raises a brow. “Oh?”
Song Lan mirrors him. “Are you stalking me, Xue Yang?”
“Why, is your twitter handle ‘I don’t fuck’?” Xue Yang curls his hand into a claw, scraping against denim. “Do you have a sign in your window? You hate being touched, idiot.”
“Maybe I just don’t like being touched by you.” Song Lan’s voice drops a register.
“Whatever. Gotta touch you to blow you, baby.”
“Not necessarily.” Xiao Xingchen’s hands feel ice cold against his flushed skin, and the shock of them is the only reason Xue Yang allows his arms to get curled up behind him, wrists pressed against his spine.
“What the—.” He yanks, straining against a shocking wiry strength. Xiao Xingchen does something to the angle, exerting pressure. Pain shoots from Xue Yang’s elbow to the palms of his hands. “What the fuck.” He laughs.
“Song Lan?”
Song Lan’s eyes are pure black. “Xingchen, is this going to cause problems for you?”
“What problems specifically?” Xiao Xingchen asks, voice perfectly even, as if he hasn't taken a captive.
Song Lan makes an ambiguous gesture that nevertheless suggests a whole array of possible activities that could be performed on a club sofa in a dark room.
“Nobody is going to come in,” Xiao Xingchen says, breath hot on the back of Xue Yang’s neck. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
Xue Yang’s chest heaves and another hot spike of pain goes through his arms. Xiao Xingchen looks like he’ll snap in half with a little pressure, but he’s got fingers like rivets. A thick, suffocating heat cracks open in Xue Yang’s throat, oozing down into his insides like egg yolk.
Nobody is coming in. They can do anything they want to him, and he can’t fight back. His knife is at home. If he really strains, he could get out of Xiao Xingchen’s grip, but then there’s Song Lan, who is stronger than both of them. If he tries to scream, Song Lan will just put his big hand over his mouth. And even if he could scream, would anybody outside give a shit? This is an elite Hollywood club, home of decadent perverts. The people who work here are probably paid to ignore things as much as they are to make fruity drinks. Just like Xue Yang is paid to pretend the people who come into Café Mente and coo over the zero waste green sustainable bullshit while walking around with forty thousand dollar handbags don’t make him want to puke.
“You gonna harvest my organs?” Xue Yang grins, feral and wide, even as his heart beats faster and faster. He feels like a jet engine. He’s going to explode. His dick throbs in his jeans.
“I doubt even that would shut you up,” Song Lan says, and wraps a hand around the back of his neck, fingers settling on the ball of his throat. He kisses differently than Xiao Xingchen—pushy, like he’s got something to prove.
Xue Yang pushes back.
When they break apart Xue Yang is breathing so heavy it feels like crying. Song Lan’s eyes are blown out like bullet holes. “You can’t let anything be easy, can you?”
Xue Yang lets the words boil inside him. “You’re the one biting me.”
Song Lan’s hand squeezes tighter around his neck. “Would you prefer I be gentle?”
Xue Yang bares his teeth.
“Is there anything you would like us to avoid?” Xiao Xingchen’s mouth is pressed to his ear.
Xue Yang’s skin feels too tight, pulled taut like plastic wrap. “Don’t hit me.”
“Mm.”
He doesn’t, Xue Yang notices, make any promises. A slick, slithering noise. When Xue Yang feels the brush of cool leather on his wrists, he realizes it was Xiao Xingchen removing his belt.
“What—.”
“So I can touch you, sweetheart."
Song Lan has a big dick. Of course he has a big dick. The world isn’t fair, so his dick has to be pretty and thick, with a pink, fleshy head and just the slightest curve. Looking at it makes Xue Yang’s mouth fucking water.
He tries to lean in, but Xiao Xingchen’s hands tighten around his wrist. He clucks in admonishment. “Not yet. I have a feeling you’re very sweet when you want to be, Xue Yang. Why don’t you ask nicely?”
Xue Yang laughs, heart pounding, arms already shaking. “Is this just a thing you do? Pick up service workers and top them in nightclubs?”
“What if it is? Do you need to feel unique?”
“Fuck no. If you want to play a game, I’ll play.”
“Mm, you do seem like a good sport.” Xiao Xingchen strokes a thumbnail over the nest of veins in his wrist. “But you need to ask nicely to get the things you want.”
“Let me suck you,” Xue Yang growls out. Song Lan’s dick twitches. “Fuck. Let me.” He yanks against Xiao Xingchen’s belt.
Song Lan takes himself in hand, tapping the head against Xue Yang’s mouth. Xue Yang’s hips fuck forward, his own dick throbbing against his fly. “Fuck, let me—I can’t—.”
Xiao Xingchen’s hand comes around to cup him. “Calm down. Be good and I’ll get it out for you.”
Xue Yang likes sucking dick. It’s easy for him to get lost in the rhythm, the hot, rough slide, the repetitive motion sending him into a nearly hypnotic state. Whose dick it is doesn’t really matter that much; he can forget there’s a person at the other end of it if he really puts his mind to it. But now, here, with Xiao Xingchen behind him and hard fingers curling in his hair to pull him down, he can’t. Can’t let himself drift.
From the very first taste, the bloom of salt on his tongue, he can’t forget that this is Song fucking Lan’s dick he’s sucking. Song Lan, who looks down at him like he’s a puddle on the stockroom floor. Song Lan, who lectures him about dress code. That Song Lan is gripping his hair tight and forcing him down on his cock, shoving in hard enough that he chokes.
“Good boy.” A rustle and hiss of a zipper, and Xiao Xingchen has Xue Yang in his cool little hand. He doesn’t stroke it, just holds it. Xue Yang whines and Song Lan throbs in his mouth, dripping onto his tongue. His hips rock forward, and Xiao Xingchen lets go of him.
Xue Yang spits Song Lan’s dick out to bitch. “Come on. Come the fuck on.”
Xiao Xingchen’s teeth sink into his ear.
“Ow, what the fuck!” He thrashes, straining at the belt until his muscles are screaming.
“Be good. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I am being good,” Xue Yang whines.
Xiao Xingchen strokes the hair at the base of his neck. “Get your mouth back on him, sweetheart.”
“You’re a freak,” Xue Yang rasps, as he feels the sticky drip of blood down his neck.
Xiao Xingchen rubs his palm against the head of Xue Yang’s dick. He grunts, hips jumping, and Xiao Xingchen lets go of him again. “Be good.”
“Fuck.”
He wraps his hand around him again, and this time Xue Yang focuses on keeping still. It sucks. He’s never been good at delayed gratification.
Song Lan pushes his head back down, giving him something else to focus on. Not that much is required of him; Song Lan thrusts into his mouth and across his tongue. All he can do is relax his throat and jaw and breathe desperately through his nose whenever Song Lan pulls out, before he slams back in to the back of his throat.
He’s squirming again. He can’t help it. He welcomes anyone else who thinks they’re hot shit to try to stay still while a cock this big is pounding their soft palette.
“Go ahead.” Xiao Xingchen says, so quiet that Xue Yang can barely hear it. But Song Lan must be listening for it, and he must be holding back, because he pulls back out of Xue Yang’s throat and comes with a grunt, filling his mouth and spilling down his chin.
“Fuck.” He eases his cock out of Xue Yang’s mouth, a long porno trail of jizzy spit snapping between them. Xue Yang’s whole body is one burning ache; he can’t feel his hands anymore.
“Good boy,” Xiao Xingchen croons, and kisses his temple. Then before Xue Yang can even catch his breath, he wraps a hand around his dick and starts to stroke him quick and tight, twisting at the head, making Xue Yang shake and curse. It takes barely any time at all. Come pulses across Xiao Xingchen’s pretty fingers.
Lights pop at the corner of Xue Yang’s eyes, climax turning him into an animal creature of nerve endings and impulses. Electrified meat.
He turns to press his face into a warm, solid chest. A heartbeat pounds in his ears. His face is wet. Why is his face wet? Did he get come in his eyes?
“Xue Yang. Sweetheart.”
His eyelids peel apart, tunnel vision showing him a picture of a slim man in pristine white cleaning his fingers with a cloth.
“That’s a bar towel, don’t use it as a cumrag.” The voice comes from above Xue Yang, buzzing through the chest. The arms are still around him. Right. Xiao Xingchen is over there, so that must be—
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Song Lan’s fingers are in his hair. Not pulling, just moving slow and steady. ‘’Shut up,” he murmurs.
Xue Yang smacks him off. He feels like there’s something he forgot to do. “Xiao Xingchen.” He chews on his lip. It is suddenly immensely important to know that Xiao Xingchen was satisfied. That fucking around with Xue Yang wasn’t a waste of time. “Are you—.”
“I’m alright.” Xiao Xingchen flings the cloth aside and hops up on the bar, swinging his legs like a kid. “I like waiting.”
His grin makes overworked sections of Xue Yang’s anatomy tingle in tired interest.
“What now?” he finds himself asking. A truly stupid question. Xue Yang knows what happens next. He and Song Lan go back to their coffee bitch jobs, and Xiao Xingchen goes back to eating caviar or driving sports cars, or whatever else famous people do for fun. This isn’t anything more than a drunken hookup. And that’s all he wants it to be.
I like waiting. That implies he wants more, doesn’t it? The disgusting flare of hope bursting inside him at that thought is enough to convince Xue Yang to get out while he can.
He has an addictive personality. And he can’t afford this habit.
“Well, technically I have the room reserved for another hour.” Xiao Xingchen looks briefly at his watch. “But my place isn’t far away.”
Song Lan makes a thoughtful noise, and Xue Yang realizes he’s still lying in the circle of his arms with his dick out. He shoves him away and starts to put himself back together. If he hurries he can probably get Meng Yao on the phone before he goes out for the night and get him to send him a car. He’ll be a bitch about it but at least Xue Yang won’t have to pay for another cab…
“I don’t have any plans tonight.” Song Lan is answering Xiao Xingchen’s question, but he’s looking at Xue Yang. There’s a challenge in his face, as if Xue Yang didn’t just make him come his brains out.
"Xue Yang?" Xiao Xingchen turns that razor blade smile on him. It's far more subtle, less of a challenge. Well, maybe a bit of a challenge.
He picks his jacket up. "What the hell. Let's go."