Archive of Our Own

There are three things Vein has learned in his almost twenty-six years of life that he considers worth giving a damn about. Important lessons carved into him with the precision of a surgical knife, settling deep into the subcutaneous layer of his flesh. His wounds, long since closed but healed poorly, stretch across his chest, arms, legs, and back to remind him who he is. What he is. They announce their presence every time he stands naked in front of the mirror. Their hideous, waxy pallor sticking out against otherwise smooth skin, claiming him. 

Lesson number one: money is power and power is everything.

His upbringing would be described as unusual by most, so much so that it borders on the absurd. There was no love there. Only the touch of calloused hands and the smell of rust. He had learned through watching those above him, the belligerent bastards that they were, that you don’t earn a seat at the table if you can’t foot the bill—and if you don’t have a seat at the table, you bleed out on the floor. Chinatown is a beast and a devil, a shapeshifter and a curse. It doesn’t bow its head and sheath its claws for the feeble. It’s conscious. Sentient. It clamps down and swallows its victims, bones and all. 

So Vein threw himself into its belly and clawed his way out, kicking, screaming, and choking on the acrid odor of death. He earned money. Power. A lofty seat at the highest table. He cut away the parts of him that were unfit for the role until he was reduced to meat, cold and unfeeling. Subhuman. It’s what he was born for, written into his script with a pen nib drenched in finality. 

Lesson number two: always go in for the kill. 

He remembers the first time he held a knife—not to a plate of food but to the pressure point of a person’s neck. He’d been young. So young that he wasn’t done growing yet, the awkwardness of gangly limbs and burgeoning bones clashing with boyish features. It’s kill or be killed, boy. Eat or be eaten. Chew them up and spit them out before you wind up six feet under. That there’s the meaning of life. His father, ever the poet, sang bard songs of killers and found them in the ruddy eyes of his children. 

But Xiao Weiying, as he was called then, used to hesitate. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. Something defective. Something that separated him from the others in an inexcusable way. Because there could be no room for kindness, no room for doubt. No clemency granted to a scared little boy who didn’t want the stink of blood on his hands. But this, like everything else, was beaten out of him, stolen away and sloughed off like dead skin. 

Violence comes to him easily now. It’s second-nature, like the way his bilingual tongue rolls between English and Chinese without a passing thought. There is no hesitance as he plunges his blade into some scumbag’s throat, no diffidence when his bullets find home in his enemy’s head. He’s become the executioner, the metallic sheen of a barber’s blade. Bridon, in its clandestine filth, is a sprawling Prometheus; he is the eagle flung from dawn to pluck out its liver.

Lesson number three: trust nobody; place faith only in yourself. 

This one is the easiest. Paranoia comes to him like breathing does. It’s become like a friend to him over the years, sticking to his side the way flesh hangs off a glue-trap. He has learned, through previous mistakes, that this world—this steaming, stinking, ball of bile and puss— is rotten to its core. And that rot spreads. It spreads and coils and seethes until it’s infected everything, even the soil. 

So Vein doesn’t trust anybody. How could he? He hasn’t survived a quarter of a century walking barefoot through hell being naïve. If anything, he prefers animals. They’re predictable, demonstrating their intent with raised hackles and bluff charges. They’re simpleminded, concerned only about their young and where their next meal is coming from. If Vein had the time, he’d probably own a dog or two. It’d be a nice change of pace, having a companion incapable of deceit. He has ample evidence in the shape of stab-wounds and bullet-holes to prove that the hearts of men are tainted with corruption. Every last one of them. 

But God, (or whatever cosmic entity is running things out in the ether), has made a delightful habit of shitting in his dinner. It’s as if he’s got a standard-bearer hellbent on undermining him, or a trio of witches pointing notched knuckles toward Birnam Wood, because every lesson he’s ever learned fizzles out like a one-hit wonder the moment he lays eyes on a certain blond. 

Xia Fei is, for lack of a better word, an anomaly. He’d taken pity on this cute, broke college student in need of money and a place in the world and hired him despite his lack of experience. He’d simply found him amusing, what with his tendency to glower at things he doesn’t like and his inability to lie with fidelity. It shouldn’t have been any more than that. It wasn’t supposed to be more than that. But ever since he pulled this hapless, flailing thing out of the pool after a workplace drowning attempt, they’ve been practically attached at the hip.

And it’s driving Vein fucking crazy. 

Of his three cardinal rules, the third one applies best to this situation. But either he’s more than a couple screws loose or he’s developing some new, previously unheard of neurological disease that exists solely to hamper his better judgment because he does trust Xia Fei. Not because he’s made any grand, sweeping gestures of loyalty, but because he’s honest. He tells Vein things. 

“Boss,” he’ll say, the beginnings of a smile playing at his lips as he furrows his brows. “People are gonna think you’re weird.”

But there’s never any malice in his voice, never any mocking, even when he’s being blunt: “Honestly, I say this with all the love in my heart, but if you keep kicking people who are rude to me your agency’s gonna go under, and I’ll have to become a panhandler.”  

“And for what reason would you have to become a panhandler?” He’d asked, incredulous to the point of scoffing. He’d kicked a few employees around, sure—the ones who’d tried drowning Xia Fei (which was justified) and another who called him useless after a few too many mistakes on set. Only in the shin. Hard enough to send him toppling over. He’d gotten a third one in the ankle for stealing Xia Fei’s lunch out of the fridge and dumping it into the trash (also justified). 

Xia Fei's smile only widened, his nose scrunching up as he snorted at his own joke. “To raise money for law school. Somebody’s gonna have to defend you.” 

Vein remembers this conversation well. It was one of the first times Xia Fei made him really laugh. It wasn't some fake, sardonic snickering or a lighthearted chuckle either. No, he leaned into his chair, threw back his head, and laughed.

There are other times when he’ll just burst into Vein’s office like he owns the place, like he isn’t walking blindly into a wolves’ den, and confidently proclaims: “Boss. Have I got a story for you!” 

Xia Fei’s stories can be hard to follow. He tends to go back and forth sporadically between events, stopping at different intervals and throwing in odd details. But as fragmented and long winded as his tales often are, Vein still stops to listen because Xia Fei never lies in his stories. He’ll even include embarrassing tidbits about himself and his own actions with little caveats. “I know I messed up here,” he’ll say, or: “It definitely wasn’t my brightest moment” —and Vein gives him his full attention every time. 

It’s a nice change of pace, spending time with somebody who doesn’t have anything to hide. There are, of course, things Xia Fei likely hasn’t told him, but he’s not about to pry into more personal secrets. It’d be an injustice, all things considered. 

When Xia Fei does lie, he’s terrible at it; he can’t get through half a sentence without stumbling. Once, when he had missed a photoshoot, he came into Vein’s office looking like a dog with its tail between its legs, stuttering his way through a half-baked defense. 

“So like. I wanted to come in on time. But I had a really bad headache. And there was construction on campus. And this older woman who needed directions to the bursar's office. And because of the construction we had to walk all the way around and my head hurt so then I went back to get ibuprofen but my shitty roommate used the last of it so I had to go to the pharmacy to get some but when I got there the registers were down so they had to ring me up the old-fashioned way and—”

“Felix,” Vein had said, holding up a hand and suppressing a snort. He’d never found such a blatant lie so amusing. Xia Fei, even with all his fumbling and caterwauling, had started to pick up several privileges. “You overslept, didn’t you?” 

Xia Fei had deflated like a balloon. “Yep.” 

Vein laughed at this too, loud and unrestrained. 

Even now, when Xia Fei is lounging in his office and Vein doesn’t expect anything from him, he tells him things. 

“Boss,” Xia Fei says nonchalantly, doodling mindlessly on a legal pad with his cheek pressed against the surface of Vein’s desk. The fact that he even allows this is beyond him. “I don’t like working with Adam.” 

As if his voice was made of glue, Vein immediately stops what he’s doing and takes a good look at him. He’s hunched fully over the desk, pouting like a cat who’s not received its supper. Vein raises an eyebrow and sets his pen to the side. 

“The director of your last shoot? And why’s that?” 

Vein watches which rapt attention. Something strange bubbles in his gut as Xia Fei’s mouth twists into a deep, uncomfortable frown. 

“He’s creepy.” 

Vein’s eyes narrow; the bubbling in his gut turns to a boil. “Creepy how?”

Xia Fei makes a vague hand gesture, averting his gaze. “I don’t know. Just creepy.” 

“Felix,” Vein nearly hisses, leaning forward and tapping his index finger harshly on the desk. His senses have come alight, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as hundreds of unsavory scenarios flick through his mind. “Creepy how?” 

But Xia Fei just shrugs, his broad shoulders rising and falling slowly as he pushes the air out of his lungs. “He just. Gets a little too close to me. I don’t know. Maybe I’m overreacting, but he’s always right in my face. And he gets a little touchy, too. Like he puts his hand on my shoulder and keeps it there. I don’t like it.”

Vein feels hot all of a sudden like the thermostat on the wall has been turned up several degrees. His molars, rough and jagged in his mouth, grind against each other as he tries to keep a level expression. 

“I told him to back off a bit, but he just laughed about it. I don’t know. Do you think I’m just overthinking things?” 

His response comes out sharper and quicker than either of them anticipated. Xia Fei’s eyes widen at the sound. 

“No. He won’t be working with you anymore. Or with any of the models signed here.” Vein folds his hands and rests his chin on them, smiling with his teeth. 

He knows, regrettably, that it would be unreasonable to kill Adam. He doesn’t know the man well, other than the fact that he’s some big-shot magazine director who carries the patina of old money and reeks like it too. Cutting ties with him will result in financial loss for the company, but Vein couldn’t be begged to give a damn. If he makes Xia Fei uncomfortable, he’s worthless. Less than the corpse of an insect wedged between sidewalk cracks. 

Xia Fei blinks up at him, his messy bangs falling over his eyes as his brows furrow. It reminds Vein of one of those scruffy terrier dogs. “Oh. I mean, are you sure that’s okay? Wouldn’t that create problems for you?” 

Vein just smiles. He tastes rust on his tongue as he forces himself to stop gnawing on it. “You should know by now that I can handle any problem thrown at me.” His fingers twitch as he reaches over and lays a hand in Xia Fei’s hair. He ruffles it gently, feeling the tension leave his body as the smooth, thick strands glide against his palm. “It’ll get taken care of.” 

He feels Xia Fei relax under his touch. A soft sigh slips past his lips as he picks his head up off the desk and takes Vein’s hand in his own. Vein stills completely, his traitorous heart stuttering in his chest as Xia Fei peers up at him with half-lidded eyes. 

“If you say so,” he says, smiling lazily as he brings Vein’s hand forward to rest in his hair again. Vein doesn’t stop him. He’s convinced that at this point, he’ll let Xia Fei do whatever he wants. 

They stay like that for a little while, Vein massaging a pressure point on Xia Fei’s skull while the latter beams up at him like he’s won something. 

Vein spends an ample amount of time on his appearance. His bathroom cabinet is filled to the brim with various creams, serums, and lotions—the majority of which are designed for use on his face and neck. He also has a plethora of hair products, from mousses to detanglers, oils and mists. They all serve a specific purpose. 

He has quite a bit of makeup, too. While he usually sports red eyeliner and thick, neatly filled brows, he owns several different eyeshadow palettes, concealers, highlighters and bronzers. He doesn’t typically change up his look when he’s not attending a special event, but he does like having options. 

When buying hair products, he considers two things to be of utmost importance: quality and ingredients. He hasn’t maintained the smooth, silky texture of his chest-length hair being flippant. Products with overly harsh chemicals cause damage, and as a general rule, the customer gets what they pay for. He’s rather fortunate in that regard; he has more than enough in his bank account to be able to afford the high-in stuff. 

When it comes to skincare, he reaches for non-comedogenic products with anti-aging properties. Retinols. Hyaluronic acid serums. Sunscreens. If he’s been blessed with nothing else in this life, he at the very least has fairly normal skin. It isn’t too dry nor too oily. He’s never been one to break out save for the rare pimple on his chin, and he’s always been good at covering them up. Maybe it’s partially attributed to the charms he wears—he’s been lucky enough to never have to deal with severe skin problems. 

Xia Fei is not so lucky. His skin has a natural oily quality to it, making it slightly acne prone. He doesn’t break out much, but when he does, he tends to get antsy about it. He’s told Vein in the past that he doesn’t care much for his appearance, and that there have been times in his life where his looks alone have gotten him into troubling situations. But for whatever reason, when he wakes up with a cluster of pimples on his cheeks, he starts to beat himself up over it. 

Today, he finds Xia Fei alone in the bathroom near his office, grumbling to himself as he prods at his face. 

“You shouldn’t touch them too much. It’ll only make it worse.” 

Xia Fei scowls into the mirror, not bothering to look at him. “I overheard Jack and some of the others joking about it,” he murmurs, squeezing one of the whiteheads between his index fingers. He has three of them on his left cheek and another one under his eyebrow piercing. “They were wondering if I ever wash my face. Real fucking funny stuff.”  

Vein raises an eyebrow. “Jack and who else?” 

Xia Fei shrugs. “I don’t know. Andrew. Jessica I think too. Who gives a shit. They all love seeing bad things happen to me.” 

Vein strides over to him and grabs his hands to pull them away from his face. Then, he takes Xia Fei’s chin in his hand and turns his face to get a better look at him. “Jack, Andrew, and Jessica. Anyone else?” 

This, at the very least, gets Xia Fei’s attention. He wrinkles his nose and frowns, his cheeks coloring a bit as Vein leans close. “Why? What are you gonna do about it?” 

“I am going to put them in their place,” Vein says simply, tapping his thumb idly against Xia Fei’s chin. “If they’ve got the time to make fun of you, then they’re clearly not doing anything worthwhile.” 

There’s a sharp clip to his voice. If Xia Fei notices, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Still, his expression twists a bit, lines of worry forming on his forehead. “Okay. Yeah, but won’t that let them know I told you?”  

Vein smiles, flashing his teeth. He keeps a firm, not bruising hold on Xia Fei’s chin. “So what? How would they know I didn’t hear it myself? I have eyes and ears everywhere, Felix.” 

Xia Fei’s honey-gold eyes shift toward the mirror, his jaw clenched tight, but he doesn’t pull away. “I mean. Boss, won’t that, uh…” His voice trails off to a whisper, barely audible above the whir of the ceiling vent. 

“Won’t that what?” If nothing else, he’ll get honesty out of Xia Fei. It’s something he’s come to count on. 

“I mean,” he starts, gnawing at his lip. He doesn’t seem preoccupied with his skin anymore. “If you keep speaking in my defense, won’t that help spread more rumors?” 

Ah. 

It’s no secret that Vein favors Xia Fei. He knows, in some rational part of his brain, that he’s not doing the man any favors by being so publicly affectionate toward him. It’s caused nasty little rumors to spread about the nature of their relationship, and although Vein is sickeningly fond of him, he hasn’t authentically pursued him. Such a thing would require him to have feelings for Xia Fei that extend beyond the strictly platonic. Which they don’t. Obviously. 

He smiles at Xia Fei and releases his hold on his chin. “Well, if you’re so opposed to it, I could just assign them to projects far away from you and make sure that your schedules don’t line up for the time being.” He reaches up to ruffle Xia Fei’s hair. “Sound better?”

Ultimately, he does plan on speaking with them—mostly about their shoddy performance and tendency to run their mouths—but he can keep Xia Fei’s name out of it. Give the both of them some plausible deniability. 

“And by the way,” Vein adds, poking Xia Fei’s nose. “You shouldn’t spend so much time worrying about what people say about you. You look good.”

Xia Fei’s blush deepens as he swats Vein’s hand away. “Enough with that.” He clears his throat. “Are you sure that’s something you can work out? Won’t they complain about schedule changes?” 

Vein shrugs, putting his hands in his pockets. He’s prodded at Xia Fei enough for the time being. “Does it matter? They work for me. I decide where they go. If they have a problem with it, surely we can have a sit-down chat about all of their failures and poor behavior.” 

He expects Xia Fei to question him more on the logistics or to grumble about the unfairness of the situation. And he’d be right to. The way the other models treat him makes Vein’s blood pressure hit medically mysterious levels.

What he doesn’t expect is this: Xia Fei throwing his arms around his torso to hug him. It catches him off guard, making him jump as if something loud went off nearby. Vein’s heart flutters wildly as Xia Fei rests his chin on his shoulder and sighs. 

“Thanks, boss.” Vein can hear the smile in his voice, the tender laugh. “You’re the best.”

For a moment, Vein doesn’t know what to do with his hands. His fingers twitch uncontrollably as he places both of them on Xia Fei’s lower back. If anyone were to walk in and see them now, dispelling the rumors surrounding them would be nigh impossible. 

But Vein only tightens his hold on Xia Fei as a sudden flash of possessiveness rockets through his bones. When he speaks, he tries to keep an even tone. “Yes, yes, I know. The perks of being the boss and all that.” He pulls away a bit despite every nerve-ending in his body screaming against it and looks his grouchy little model in the eye. “Feeling better?” 

Xia Fei pulls away as well, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I do,” he says, smiling again as he punches Vein lightly on the shoulder. “And I’ll feel even better if you make Jack’s day worse. I might even start keeping my temper in check.” 

“Really?” Vein scoffs. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“Alright well don’t get your hopes up too much. I said "might.” 

Vein flicks him. “Don’t get smart with me.”

“Ugh,” Xia Fei bats Vein’s hand away and rubs his forehead. “Fine. I’ll be good. Promise.” 

“I’m sure you will. Now let's get you back to work, hm? You have amateurs to out-dazzle.” 

Xia Fei’s cheeks get rosy again, but his brilliant smile doesn’t falter. “Lead the way, captain.” 

So Vein does. He leads Xia Fei out of the shadows and back into the light where he belongs. 

Something Vein has always enjoyed is a good drink. He started drinking well before he was of legal age, mostly because he was in an environment that called for it. Where there’s organized crime, there is illicit activity. Over the years, he’s figured out that he prefers the taste of rich, red wines over other alcoholic beverages. He likes the bitterness of it—the way the tannins swirl around his tongue and coat the back of his throat. He’s no sweet-tooth; flashy, sugary party drinks can be a fun novelty, but he doesn’t reach for them unless he’s attending an event where they’re being served. He much prefers going for simple, smooth drinks, but he’s no shrinking violet at the bar. Shying away from strong or overly sweet spirits would put into question the validity of his poker face. 

Preferences aside, there is one thing Vein won’t do when it comes to alcohol: exceed his limits. 

Vein does not get drunk. He doesn’t drink to the point of wobbly, sloshy inebriation that the average twenty-something finds appealing. He won’t, because if he’s learned anything from being in dimly-lit, seedy dives and crawling through the underbelly of the crime world, it’s that the last thing anybody should do relinquish their self-control. If any opportunistic rivals saw him all doe-eyed and ditzy at the bar, he’d wake up in a ditch the next morning. If he wakes up at all.

So Vein doesn’t exceed his limits. He knows when to cut himself off, never pushes the envelope. 

But Xia Fei? Oh, that man can drink; and he wouldn’t know his limits if Vein smacked him over the head with them. 

“Boooooooosssss,” Xia Fei slurs, his head lolling forward as he clings weakly to Vein’s back. “Why’d you cut me oooooff?” 

Vein grunts, stopping for a moment to readjust his hold on Xia Fei’s legs. He’d gotten himself downright shitfaced at a party celebrating the end of the semester. Evidently, he couldn’t find it in himself to back down from a drinking challenge with some of his classmates. If Vein hadn’t arrived when he did, he’s fairly certain Xia Fei would be rolling around in a puddle of his own vomit. 

Idiot. 

“You are completely, hopelessly, disgustingly drunk. I cut you off to prevent you from going into an alcohol-induced coma. Consider this piggyback ride and the fact that I haven’t knocked you senseless blessings from whatever higher power you choose to believe in.” 

Xia Fei sighs as he presses his face into the crook of Vein’s neck. Hot, wet lips brush against the skin peeking out from his turtleneck. He suppresses a shiver and cranes his neck to the side. 

“‘M fine, Boss. Can handle myself. Also ‘m agnostic. Don’t know who to thank.” 

Vein clicks his tongue in annoyance. The bar Xia Fei had been drinking at is, luckily, only a few blocks away from the campus apartments. It’s not that Xia Fei is particularly heavy, but he’s clinging to Vein like a spider-monkey and squirming around like one too. That, and he’s still got his pretty face pressed flush against Vein’s throat. 

“Your booze-addled brain probably doesn’t remember this, but one of your classmates took pity on you and asked who they could call to pick you up.” He grits his teeth remembering the initial white-hot panic surging through him when he’d received a call from Xia Fei’s number and heard a voice he didn’t recognize. He nearly bit the poor girl’s head off demanding to know where Xia Fei was. “You had them call me. So no, you’re not fine. You’re so sloshed you can barely stand up straight. You’re lucky one of your classmates has a conscience and thought to call somebody rather than leaving your sorry ass glued to a bar-stool for the rest of the night.” 

He feels Xia Fei’s face scrunch up against his skin and hears a light, bubbling laugh. “I am lucky. I have you.” 

Vein has half a mind to throw him off. He’s awfully lucky himself that the man clinging to him is too wasted to notice the color on his cheeks. “Be quiet now. You’ve lost your speaking privileges.” 

Xia Fei whines, muttering some unintelligible nonsense. Vein sighs and arches his back forward more to make the task of carrying him easier on his spine.

It’s past midnight by the time he gets Xia Fei back to his dorm. He manages to fish the younger man’s ID out of his pocket and key into the residence hall without much trouble, but he does get a few looks from some of the other students on the way up to Xia Fei’s suite. He half expects to see a sock on the door handle. It’s happened before—his roommate had decided he was going to ruin some girl’s day with the worst sex she’s ever had, and told Xia Fei he needed the entire suite for himself. If it happened again while Vein was around he’d end up being escorted off the premises in handcuffs. 

Luckily for everyone involved, Xia Fei’s roommate isn’t home. Vein keys into an empty suite, carries Xia Fei to the bedroom, and drops him unceremoniously down on the bed. 

“Surely you have water and not just beer in your fridge?” 

Xia Fei groans and curls in on himself, not even bothering to unmake his bed. “Yes I have water. What do you take me for?” 

Vein raises an eyebrow.

Xia Fei buries his face in his hands. “Don’t answer that.” 

Vein laughs, then crouches down in front of the mini-fridge beside Xia Fei’s bed and opens it. There is, in fact, water. And a half-empty bottle of blue raspberry Svedka. He resists the urge to comment on it, but he hasn’t the slightest idea how Xia Fei can stomach drinking pig swill. 

“My head is gonna hurt soooooo fucking bad tomorrow,” Xia Fei whines, kicking his legs up into the air. He’s sobered up a bit since Vein first picked him up, but he’s still not well enough to adequately take care of himself. Vein plucks a water bottle out of the fridge, uncaps it, and brings it over to him. 

“It’ll hurt less if you drink something that isn’t corroding your liver. Sit up.” Xia Fei does as he’s told, and Vein pushes the bottle to Xia Fei’s lips, watching carefully as the latter wraps his hand around it. “Drink slow. I don’t need you throwing up all over yourself. I don’t feel like cleaning it.” 

Xia Fei takes a couple of sips from the bottle and wrinkles his nose. “I could clean up my own puke. Probably. I own a mop.” 

Vein rolls his eyes. “How impressive of you. Tell me, do you own paper towels and soap too?” 

“Yeeeuuup.” 

“Wonderful,” Vein deadpans. “You never cease to amaze me.” 

Xia Fei takes another sip of water, then sets it down on the nightstand and looks up at Vein with hazy befuddlement. “Huh. I think you’re making fun of me right now.” 

Vein shrugs and walks over to the dresser. “I might be.” He reaches into the top drawer and rummages around until he finds what he’s looking for: a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. If he was alone, he might have brought the clothing close to his face and inhaled Xia Fei’s scent, but there are limits to what even he will do. He has a reputation for being a bit off-kilter, but he’s not so deranged that he’ll sniff clothes in front of the person they belong to. 

“Here.” He tosses the shirt and pants into Xia Fei’s lap. “Get changed. You smell like a brewery.” 

Xia Fei eyeballs the clothing with furrowed brows, like he’s unsure of what to do with them. Slowly, he brings his hands up under his shirt and tries to take it off. He gets about halfway, then starts giggling like a child once the fabric is pulled up over his head. 

“I feel like Yoda,” he snorts, hunching over on the bed. His face is hidden by the shirt and his mussed up hair is sticking out of the neckline. “Shirt take off, hard it is.” 

Vein has only a vague idea of what he’s talking about, but the sight is ridiculous enough to get a chuckle out of him. He walks over to the bed and gingerly grabs the hem of Xia Fei’s shirt. “Easy there, Yoda. You’ll rip out that piercing if you’re not careful.” 

Xia Fei is still giggling as Vein removes his shirt. Once it’s off, Vein’s gaze trails down the planes of his chest, his breath catching slightly in his throat. Xia Fei is good-looking. He always has been. But there’s something about the man being giddy, rosy, and half-naked on his bed that makes the fragile threads of his sanity start to come undone. 

“Boss.” 

“Hmm?” Vein turns to let him finish changing, then crouches down to grab another water bottle out of the fridge. His mouth has gone dry all of a sudden, and he could use a cool drink. 

“I need an opinion.”

Vein can only imagine what sort of opinions an inebriated twenty-one year old could want. He uncaps the bottle and takes a sip. 

“I’m wondering if I should get my nipples pierced.” 

Vein nearly chokes. 

“Why— ” he grips the bottle hard enough for water to spill out onto his hand. He coughs a few times, then clears his throat. “Would you do that?” 

Xia Fei sighs, flopping back down onto the bed. He’s in his pajamas now, although he couldn’t manage to tie the drawstring on his pants, so they’re hanging loosely around his waist. 

“You’re right. It’ll probably hurt waaaaay more than the eyebrow one.” 

It’s not that he’s opposed. In fact, if he were to create an exhaustive list of the top three or four things he’s into, piercings would definitely make the cut. 

“But I’m a pretty tough guy. I could probably handle it.” 

Vein thinks briefly about killing him. When he speaks, his voice comes out hoarse. He’s lucky Xia Fei is too drunk to notice. “Let’s just get you to bed, yeah?” 

Xia Fei levels him with a glare, propping himself up weakly on his elbows. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.” He reaches down and flicks Xia Fei square in the forehead, causing him to yelp. “You always just do whatever you want.” 

“Ugh, you are such a killjoy,” Xia Fei whines, rubbing his forehead. He lays back down fully and curls up into a ball, pouting. “It was just a joke. Maybe.” 

Vein doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He does know that he’s going to be thinking about said piercings for the next week or so. Not that it matters. 

“And how funny you are.” He reaches down again, only this time he gives the younger man a tender pat on the head. “Now go to sleep.” 

“‘Kay,” he murmurs, turning his head to press his face into the pillow. The tips of his ears are tinged red and he’s got his knees pulled up to his chest. Vein imagines himself touching him again, just to smooth out his hair and tuck him under the covers. He imagines caressing his cheek with the pads of his fingers, slow and sweet, humming a quiet song. 

He doesn’t do any of that. He turns and starts heading for the door. “Sleep well, Felix. Call me if you need anything.” 

He’s got his hand on the doorknob when Xia Fei pipes up again. “Boss?” 

Vein stops and turns back to look at him, like he always does. “Yes?” 

There’s a pause. Vein flicks the switch by the door to turn on the ceiling fan. 

When Xia Fei finally speaks, there’s a faint waver in his voice. “Can we get coffee tomorrow?” 

A soft laugh tumbles past his lips. Who is he to deny him anything?

“Of course.” 

He steps out into the hall, closing the door behind him with a soft click. 

It’s no great secret that he hates sitting through meetings. The vast majority of them could be delivered via email (which he would graciously and unceremoniously move to the junk bin) but business-folk are interested in things like charts and spreadsheets and “being present in the now ” and “accepting non-closure. ” Business, for the most part, is amusing. He wouldn’t be neck-deep in a modeling agency if it wasn’t. But he’s almost convinced at this point that he needs to hire a body-double, because if he has to attend one more pointless assembly he might stand up in front of his colleagues and blow his brains out. 

Apparently, the one he’s sitting in right now isn’t about goal-setting or numbers, though. He’s not the sole manager of the modeling agency, and there are various directors and publishers that they’ve signed contracts with. Thus, it stands to reason that his actions here can be observed and, for lack of a better word, criticized. 

“I feel like,” one of his co-managers starts, tapping his lip with a pen, “You’re a smart enough man to know that workplace favoritism is frowned upon by most.” 

Vein raises an eyebrow as he leans back in his chair. He has half a mind to put his feet up on the table. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. I treat all my employees favorably.” 

His co-manager, Isaac, just stares at him with his mouth open. Vein wonders absent-mindedly if a bug might fly into it. 

“Sure, but there’s one you treat better than the others.” 

He’s not stupid. He knows exactly who Isaac is referring to. “And who might that be?” 

Isaac gives him an incredulous look. Both of his thin eyebrows rise up and create wrinkles on his forehead. When he speaks, the thick Welsh accent he tries to hide slips out in tune with his exasperation. “Felix, Vein. I’m talking about Felix.” 

“You know,” Vein says, kicking his feet up and putting them on the table. He stopped caring about niceties ten seconds ago. “I like you better when you let your real accent come out. The fake English one you force isn’t anywhere near as charming.” 

Isaac looks like he’s been slapped. His gaze flicks to Vein’s shoes on the table, then back up to Vein himself. “Can we not change the subject please? I’m trying to have a meaningful conversation with you.” 

Vein makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Then make it meaningful, Isaac. Do you have any actual evidence that suggests I favor him as much as you say?” 

“Some of the other models have complained.”

“Okay,” Vein scoffs. “And?” 

“And I wish you’d give a damn about it. It doesn’t look good for you. Or the company.” 

Vein picks at his cuticles. This conversation is starting to make him understand why he has a nicotine addiction. He’s itching for it—the grounding feeling of a pipe between his lips and the acerbic taste of smoke. 

“The company’s doing fine, Isaac. If it wasn’t, I’d know about it.” He takes his feet off the table and sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. The sooner he gets this lecture over with, the sooner he can take care of the restless energy coursing through his joints. “Anything else?” 

Isaac’s voice drops to a hushed whisper, like it isn’t just the two of them in here. “You know full well we have access to some of each other’s records. You quite literally have him listed as an emergency contact.” 

Most days, Vein doesn’t mind Isaac; he’s relatively inoffensive and he’s managed to make himself a rather shrewd businessman, which is something Vein respects. But right now? There’s a growing part of him that wants to reach over and tear the ridiculous soul-patch right off his chin. 

He doesn’t do that, though. It wouldn’t do him any favors to assault a level-headed business partner. Instead, he leans forward, looking his co-manager directly in the eye. “And that is none of your business.” 

Isaac sighs and rubs his hands down his face. “Look, Vein—you’re right. It's really none of my business what sort of relationship the two of you have outside of here. But at the very least, you have to stop behaving biased toward him at work. I don’t want to deal with any more complaints over it, and not for nothing, but it’d probably help him get picked on way less if you weren’t so obvious with your affections.” 

Vein closes his eyes, letting his head hit the back of his chair. He brings a hand up to rub idly at his temples and clicks his tongue. As much as he wants to throw something at Isaac right now, it would be remiss of him to ignore the fact that he has a point. It shouldn’t surprise him. The whole reason he keeps the awkward little pencil-pusher around is because he has a habit of making sense. Both financially and interpersonally. 

But unfortunately for Isaac, and for anybody who’s ever made the mistake of annoying him, Vein has never been the abundantly reasonable sort. 

“Alright, Isaac. I hear you,” Vein relents, moving his hand to glare at Isaac over the bridge of his nose. “I hear you loud and clear.” 

Isaac fidgets in his seat. He’s tapping his lip with a pen again, which is something Vein’s learned is a nervous tic. “So I suppose this means you’ll take what I said into consideration? About the—” 

Vein cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Ah, ah, I’m not finished. I said I hear you. So now you have to hear me.” He gets up out of his chair and circles around the table, stopping once he’s firmly planted himself in Isaac’s personal space. Leaning forward, he grips the arm-rest of Isaac’s chair and peers down at him, cold. Isaac’s eyes go wide. 

When Vein speaks, his voice is low—vice-like. He’s got his co-manager cornered like prey and he knows it. One wrong move, and he’ll have an apex predator’s teeth sinking into his jugular. 

“Why should I care what a bunch of whiny, stuck-up, mannerless children think when all they’ve done since Felix got here is abuse him? Why—” and he leans a bit closer, blowing some of Isaac’s wispy blond fringe out of his face, causing the latter to gulp. “Am I the only one who ever does anything to stop it? We’re equals here, right? So how come I’m the only one who ever puts my foot down and says enough? ” 

Isaac’s pupils shrink as he tries to create distance between them. He falls back into his chair and holds up a trembling hand, stuttering. “I. I’ve spoken with some of them. I have, and I’m sure some of them have taken it to heart that—”

“The way I see it,” Vein cuts him off again, his tone sharp and biting like the crack of a whip. “Is that I’m the only one around here with a goddamn backbone. You stick to crunching numbers and event-coordinating, and I will deal with complaints.” He pushes his index finger onto the center of Isaac’s forehead and holds it there. A warning. “Understood?” 

Isaac swallows thickly, nodding over and over again like a busted bobble-head. “I. Yes. I understand.” 

Vein releases him, then pulls away, flashing his canines at his sweaty, shuddering business partner. “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.” 

He extends a steady hand out toward Isaac. The other man’s quivering, clammy fingers wrap around Vein’s as he initiates an awkward handshake. 

“Just keep doing what you’re good at, Isaac. Nothing more, and nothing less. That’s the key to keeping us both happy.” Vein smiles fully now, gripping Isaac’s hand harder than necessary. “Wouldn’t you agree?” 

Isaac keeps nodding. He nods continuously even as Vein collects his coat from his chair and slips out of the conference room. He shuts the door behind him, then throws his coat over his shoulder and heads into the studio to find Xia Fei. 

Things are different when Xia Fei isn’t around. When he is, the paranoia that fills him like hot glue starts to cool, hardening into certainties. Xia Fei doesn’t have any desire to use him. Xia Fei doesn’t want to see him come to harm. Xia Fei looks at him like he hangs the constellations in the sky and like he’s given him a gift simply by being in his life. He’s said as much—

“I’m happy you’re here, boss.” 

(That alone makes something hideous stir in Vein’s chest.)

When Xia Fei isn’t around, however, he tends to become less… patient. His old habits embrace him with cold fingers, whispering false promises as they pull him close. The rage that defines him rears its ugly head, twisting and turning and busting out of him like a canker sore. It can be bewildering at times. He can’t see clearly until he’s found an outlet—something to channel it all into. 

Xia Fei has only seen him genuinely angry once or twice, but even then, he didn’t lash out. There was no need to; rather, he didn’t feel the need to. It’s as if he’s equipped with a natural mollifying effect. When Xia Fei is around, whatever has him on the warpath becomes ultimately insignificant.

He’s like honey, in a way. Warm. Sweet. Often used to cut the bitterness of acidic things. 

But regardless of Vein’s ill-conceived affections, he still has reason to keep a bit of distance between them. Whatever he feels and whatever it means doesn’t matter in the long-run. At the rate he’s going, he’ll be lucky if it makes it to thirty.

It goes like this: he gets grazed with a bullet while dealing with some street gang in Chinatown looking to create a power vacuum with his death. He’d been cutting through alleyways when he’d spotted them, six young men with pistols, switchblades, and spiked bats. He maintained an air of nonchalance, whistling to himself as they slinked up behind him, turning only once their de facto leader hurled a slur at him in Chinese. 

Evidently, what he does in the bedroom is a highly scrutinized topic among the locals. 

He’d given them a chance to back off, the chance to turn around and shimmy back into the hole they’d crawled out of. But that only prompted more expletives followed by the sound of a glass bottle breaking. 

Nobody can say he didn’t warn them. 

It wasn’t difficult, turning the six of them into cool, limp sacks of flesh. One by one, they fell against the dark pavement as rainwater from the gutters slowly turned red. He’d had his gun on him tucked away in his pants, and he’d managed to wrestle a bat away from their leader, so there wasn’t much any of them could do in the way of defending themselves. Notwithstanding that they attacked him first, Vein let each of them take a swing at him before taking their lives. Once they’d gone for his neck, he went for theirs. It was an equivalent exchange; an eye for an eye, as his father used to say. He typically left out the part about such transactions coming with a blinding effect, but Vein got the memo. 

He crouches down to get a better look at the last one he killed, the youngest of the group. He hooks a finger into the hood covering part of his face and pulls it back. What he sees makes his breath catch oddly in his throat, like he’s swallowed something wrong. 

The man was no older than twenty or twenty-one with warm-toned eyes and sloppy, blood-drenched hair—sloppy, blood-drenched blond hair. He’d come at Vein with fire, fury, and a high-pitched shout as he angled his knife toward Vein’s throat. Vein had caught him by the arm, ending things quickly with a silenced bullet in the center of his head. He hadn’t thought much of it, save for the fact that it was unfortunate to kill someone so young, but that alone didn’t stop him. 

He didn’t look like Xia Fei. He didn’t. He had patchy, box-dyed hair and a jagged scar on his upper lip. They shared nothing besides ethnicity, age, and maybe a bit of coloring, but that was it. Beyond that, they were leagues apart. Xia Fei— his Xia Fei—would never stoop so low as to join a scraggly little street-gang bent on jumping people in the shadows. He would never join any gang if Vein had anything to say about it. Because Xia Fei is too special. Too good. Too worthy of something more than dying young in the maw of a beast. Too beautiful to even be touched by one. Too—

The laughter bursting from his lungs is so violent it almost rips a hole through him. Only after he pushes his bangs out of his face and feels the sharp sting of torn flesh at his temple does he even realize he’s been shot. 

By the time he gets back to the agency that afternoon, the sun is already hanging low in the sky. The rain had ceased, leaving a thick haze floating throughout the city. He’d gone home to change and rub antiseptic fluid into the wound on his temple. It wasn’t deep by any means; the bullet had barely grazed him, but it likely needed a couple stitches. He didn’t have time for that, though. He settled for holding his skin together with one hand and applying surgical glue with the other. His physician (the incorrigible quack that he was) had hooked him up with some after he’d complained about his stitches looking like children’s work. 

And if there was a slight tremor in his hands the entire time he spent patching up his injury—if it stuck around as he gripped the steering wheel and drove well over the speed limit back to his normal, non-violent job, then he wasn’t going to think about it too hard. How could he? Xia Fei was waiting for him. He’d sent Vein a flurry of texts about how his photoshoot had gone well, but that the director wanted his opinion on the final product. Also that he was hungry. And that it’d be just awesome if Vein wanted a parfait as badly as he did. 

Xia Fei mentioned being in the dressing room, and that’s where Vein finds him. Xia Fei perks up upon seeing him, his honey-toned eyes shimmering with mirth. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” He says with an exaggerated eye-roll. “Better late than never, I suppose.” 

“Felix,” Vein breathes, struck stupid by the mere sight of him. The crew had dressed him in a royal blue blouse with a high collar, an open back, and loose, flared sleeves. They’d paired it with high-waisted black pants that accentuated his height and heeled dress shoes. His hair is slicked back to reveal more of his eyebrow piercing and they’ve replaced his normal earrings with gold, leaf-shaped ear-cuffs. 

Put simply, he looks stunning.

Xia Fei tilts his pretty head like a curious dog and Vein’s sanity fizzles out to nothing. 

“You okay, boss? You look out of breath.” 

Vein takes all but a second to collect himself. It’s not like he’s completely, hopelessly infatuated with the man sitting before him. Xia Fei is an inveterate brat who’s managed to make himself appear absolutely ethereal. Nothing more. 

“Some of us have things to do other than sit and look pretty.” He makes his way past the stool Xia Fei’s sitting on and sets his laptop down on the makeup counter. He doesn’t miss the way Xia Fei’s cheeks color at his compliment, but he elects to ignore it. “I’m assuming all of the photos were uploaded to the drive?” 

But Xia Fei doesn’t answer his question directly, just scoffs. “You say that like this modeling stuff isn’t hard work. I’m seriously beat from all this, you know.”

Vein resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. The beginnings of a headache curl into his sinuses as the blue light from his laptop singes his corneas. “Yes, I know , Felix. I was only messing around. No need to take it seriously.” 

“Well whatever,” Xia Fei says with a slight pout on his lips. He lifts his legs up and shifts himself so that he’s sitting cross-legged on the stool. “Just let me know what you think of the pictures, boss. You got my texts, right?” 

“You sent me a lot of texts. Which ones are you referring to?” Vein says, not looking at him. His eyes are glued to the screen as he types in his password and logs into the drive, where he’s instantly greeted with several recent photos of Xia Fei in the very same outfit he has on now. As he clicks through them, he has to remind himself to control his breathing—to maintain his coveted nonchalance. In the photos, Xia Fei is smiling dreamily at the camera, tilting his head and body at various different angles. The light hits him just right in the sixth one. There’s this dazzling, almost incandescent quality to his eyes that makes them resemble pools of amber. Vein would call it gorgeous, but even that wouldn’t do it justice. 

He tears his eyes away from the photo and gets all cotton-mouthed, because the real Xia Fei is sitting right in front of him.

“The ones about getting food. I’m so hungry that if I saw a horse, you’d have to hide it from me,” Xia Fei says with a snort. “Figured that once you were done, we could hang out and get something to eat.” 

Vein just stares at him. The dull ache in his head morphs into something sharper. When he speaks, it comes out harsher than he expected. Inflammatory. “Hang out ?” 

The shift in Xia Fei’s mood is instant. He lowers his brows, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why did you say it like that?” 

“Like what?” Vein deadpans. 

“Like that. Like that’s not a usual thing we do. Like we don’t hang out and get food together all the time.” 

Vein does pinch the bridge of his nose this time, holding his fingers there for a couple of seconds to alleviate some of the pressure. “Don’t overthink it.”

“I don’t think I’m overthinking anything,” Xia Fei snaps, glaring at him. “You’ve been acting weird since you got here, like this is a chore for you and that you’re irritated to even have to see me.” 

Vein sighs, pushing his bangs back. His head is fucking killing him and this brat is whinging about tone of voice. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Felix. Have I not made it abundantly clear that I enjoy spending time with you? I’m just—” 

Xia Fei cuts him off, and only then does Vein realize his mistake. 

“Holy shit, boss,” Xia Fei breathes, slack-jawed. He pushes up off of his stool and makes his way over to Vein. His eyes, which had been narrowed into angry slits mere seconds ago, have blown wide with concern. “Your head.” 

Before Vein can stop him, Xia Fei reaches out,  gently presses his fingers to Vein’s temple.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s a scratch.” He slaps Xia Fei’s fingers away, sharp and quick. “Stop looking at me like that.” 

But Xia Fei doesn’t listen. His hands fly out to touch his face again, to hold his chin and tilt it upwards with such nauseating tenderness that Vein’s stomach churns. 

“Bullshit,” he says, now clutching Vein’s face with both hands. “You’re bleeding through the bandage.” 

He doesn’t expect himself to yell, doesn’t expect his voice to have such a cruel, biting snap to it—but it does. It does, and if Vein’s learned anything, it’s that most people don’t stick around when he gets this way. “Why do you care, Felix?”

Xia Fei just grips his face harder, gritting his teeth as he leans in and forces them to see eye-to-eye. “Because I care about you! ” 

Something clicks in Vein’s head like the cocking of a gun. He can almost feel it now—the cool kiss of the barrel against his flesh, taunting him. Somewhere, between the sound of Xia Fei’s ragged breaths and the ringing in his skull, he hears an old, familiar laugh. 

He can’t stay here. He stands up abruptly and knocks Xia Fei’s hands away, then jerks a hand into his coat pocket and pulls out his phone. “I have to go. I’ll call you an Uber.” 

Xia Fei balks at him, the deep, splotchy red of his face contrasting sharply with the blue of his shirt. “What?!”

“I said,” Vein starts, and he’s trying to control his breathing by focusing on the cool feeling of the phone in his hands as he types his info into the app. “I’m calling you an Uber. There’s one that can be here in five minutes.” 

Xia Fei’s expression twists into something halfway between disbelief and rage. “You can’t be serious. Boss, I—”

Vein cuts him off, already moving toward the door. “You’re looking for a blue Nissan Juke. Driver’s name is Arnold. I’m texting you the license plate number.” He hears the notification ding on Xia Fei’s phone and turns, tossing a wave over his shoulder. “Be sure to ask who he’s picking up before getting in. And text me when you get back.” 

Behind him, Xia Fei is sputtering. His shoes squeak against the floor as he starts to move. “Boss, what the fuck? Why can’t you just let me—” 

But Vein doesn’t stick around long enough to listen. He’s practically flying out of the building, his heart hammering in his throat as his clammy thumb presses the button on his car’s automatic starter. The vehicle hums to life right as he makes it out onto the street. He throws open the driver-side door and nearly falls over himself getting in. By the time the blue Nissan pulls up to the front of the agency, Vein’s peeling out of the parking lot and speeding down the street. 

The first thing he does when he gets home is reach for a lighter. He kicks off his shoes, grabs a cigarette carton out of his coat, and tosses the garment over the kitchen counter. Normally, he prefers something a bit more elegant than a Marlboro, but he doesn’t have it in him right now to be picky. He’s like a goddamn bull in a china cabinet the way he practically tumbles out onto the bedroom balcony, clamping down on the cigarette between his teeth as he strikes the lighter. Once it’s lit, he takes a quick, heavy drag and presses the small of his back to the railing. 

He’s always been able to calm down like this. It’s a nasty habit, but it’s not one he sees himself quitting anytime soon. There have been times in his life when he’s humored the idea of getting prescribed psychiatric medication—something to help curb his paranoia. He’s never gone through with it, though. The thought has always felt far away. Fleeting. Something outside of the realm of possibility. If he clears up one bad habit, it stands to reason he’ll have to start clearing up all of them, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready to do that. 

He takes another drag. His phone buzzes in his pocket. 

Speaking of bad habits. 

He pulls it out, expecting to see a text from Xia Fei. He taps the screen and it lights up to reveal a message from Isaac: Did you and Felix decide on the photos?

Something heavy settles in the pit of his stomach, rumbling. He clicks his tongue and types out a quick response.

The sixth one. Have it printed and distributed.

He shoves his phone in his pocket and looks out over the city skyline. He chews on the cigarette filter between his lips and doesn’t think about Xia Fei. There are plenty of things that require his attention that don’t involve an employee who shouldn’t even give a shit about him. Even if they’ve been flirtatious with each other from time to time, who wants to spend an evening worrying about their boss? 

But Xia Fei had been touching him, leaning in close, telling him he cares. He’s asked Xia Fei if he likes him in the past, to which the younger man would readily admit that he does, but Vein had never been specific about it, never pushed it beyond gentle teasing. To like somebody means many things. It’s not necessarily a signal of romantic intent. Xia Fei likes sweets, movies, and making digital art. He likes talking to his mom on the phone and lattes with too much milk and football games. 

Vein would be a bad liar if he said he never noticed Xia Fei’s crush on him. He’d found it amusing—the fact that this whiny, overgrown puppy had taken a shine to him. Vein found him beautiful, yes, but that didn’t mean he was planning on jumping his bones and making him think there was something there that wasn’t. It’d been simple. He saw a companion in Xia Fei. A friend. Something he hasn’t had in years. He could push away those terrifying, fledgling feelings haunting him in the quiet hours of the night and pretend he wanted nothing more. 

He checks his phone again. Xia Fei still hasn’t texted him. Vein breaks the barrier of silence between them with a simple question: Are you home yet?

He locks his phone, shoves it in his pocket, and waits. 

Ten seconds go by. Then twenty. Then thirty. Then a whole minute. Vein rips his phone back out of his pocket and checks for a response. 

Nothing. 

He feels a prickling sensation on his skin. His breath starts to come in jagged and the edges of his surroundings warp, coloring the world in various shades of indigo. 

He hadn’t verified anything about the Uber driver. He knew his license plate and that his name was Arnold, but nothing else. It’d been a good half hour since he’d left the agency, which was more than enough time for somebody with wicked intentions to—

No. 

Xia Fei is safe. He’s fine. He has to be. The driver brought him home. He’s back in his dorm and alive and pissed at him like he has every right to be and that’s why he isn’t answering. He’s safe. He’s safe. He has to be.

He nearly drops his phone off the side of the balcony from how hard his hands are shaking as he sends another text: Answer me. 

Vein waits, each passing second a new dagger in his throat. He sends another text: Please. 

This time, he gets a response. 

I’m fine, boss. 

Vein nearly collapses. He brings a trembling hand to his chest and holds it there like it’ll keep his heart from bursting through his ribs. His breath comes out in a sharp, shuddering gasps and he stills. Once he’s finally steady, he closes up the balcony and wobbles back into his bedroom. He sits down on the bed and sighs, running his fingers down cool silk sheets. 

Xia Fei is safe, he thinks as a smile tugs at his cheeks. His sweet, ridiculous, flighty little love is safe, and that’s all that matters. 

The realization hits like a bullet reverberating through his bones.

His love. The bastard king of Chinatown—the veritable titan god of perspicacity and flame—has fallen in love. 

It fills him to the brim with something ugly, something foul, something like bile rising to his throat as he stumbles into the bathroom and shoves two fingers in his mouth. When he does throw up, the feeling doesn’t go away. It sticks to him like hot tar on a summer’s day, painful and sizzling. He tries clawing at his skin, tries ripping away the parts of himself he failed to cut off, scraping and picking and plucking until the undersides of his fingernails burn red. He brings both hands to his hair and pulls at the roots as his filthy, defective heart bleats in his chest like a goat taken off to slaughter. He can’t do this. He can’t do this. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t—

His phone rings. Both of his hands grip the seat of the toilet to steady himself. It’s been years, he thinks, as a haggard, hysterical laugh careens past his lips. It’s been years since he’s had one of those. 

He lets the phone ring a few more times until he reaches for it. He knows this ring. It’s a specific one chosen for a specific person. He laughs again, dazed as he pushes the hair out of his face and shifts his shell-shocked body to lean back against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. He licks his lips and tastes salt as his phone screen lights up with a familiar name. 

Even now, when the cause of his undignified little meltdown is demanding his attention, he responds. 

“Felix,” he breathes, his voice steady as a watch needle. He pulls his knees up to rest his wrists on them. “It’s late. Is everything alright?” 

“Oh,” he hears Felix mutter on the other line, then the shuffling of fabric and the creak of mattress springs. He must be lying in bed, Vein thinks as his breath evens out. Good. 

“Out with it Felix. It’s late and you have another shoot tomorrow. If something’s the matter, tell me what it is.” 

There’s silence for a moment save for the sound of breathing. If Vein tries hard enough, he can hear the gentle click of the gears turning in Xia Fei’s pretty head. 

“Jeez, ” he mumbles sheepishly as he scratches his head near the receiver. “It’s just uh. I wanted to call you. To check on things. ” 

“To check on things,” Vein echoes, rubbing a hand down his face. He wrinkles his nose at the odor of vomit, suddenly aware of the fact that he hadn’t flushed. He mutes the line for a second and does so. “Is this about our little spat? You can forget about it, Felix. I’m not angry with you. And I’m fine.” 

Another pause. Then, a quiet sigh. “Well, yeah, I mean. Well what I want to say is—”

Vein lets him fumble around for a bit longer, his eyes turning glassy as he stares off into space. His bathroom, like most things in his overpriced penthouse, is too big for what it needs to be. The whole place is massive, ridiculously so. His voice bounces off pitched ceilings, echoing up and down the halls. When the sound comes back to him, it carries with it a sardonic whisper to remind him he lives alone. 

A nervous laugh catches his attention. He closes his eyes and waits. 

“What I want to say is that you were clearly stressed out about something today. And you got injured at some point, so I guess I wanted to call because. Because I was worried about you.” 

“Worried,” Vein repeats with a weak chuckle. Worried. He doesn’t think anybody’s legitimately worried about him since he was in diapers. There’s leftover stomach acid burning the back of his throat but it tastes almost sweet as his chest constricts with feverish adoration. “You shouldn’t worry yourself over me, Felix. I’ve got everything under control.” 

He doesn’t hear anything for a moment other than Xia Fei’s steady breathing. This, along with the knowledge that he’s resting comfortably in bed and not bleeding out in an alley somewhere is what grounds him. He can imagine him now, his hair splayed out on the pillow like brushstrokes in yellow, eyes weary with sleep as he cradles the phone against his cheek. He’s perfect. Beautiful. 

There’s no small hint of indignation in Xia Fei’s tone when he speaks again. “I mean, yeah. You do. But that doesn’t mean I can’t ever be worried. ” He hears the phone click against something small and metallic, probably one of Xia Fei’s piercings as he moves the phone to his other ear. “Like I said before, boss. I care about you.” 

Vein tilts his head back and stares directly into the ceiling lamp, unblinking. If he looks long enough, he can pretend the prickling sensation in his eyes is from strain alone. 

“I know, Felix,” he admits, keeping his tone level. He doesn’t know when the mere act of talking to Xia Fei transformed into a balancing act. “But at the end of the day, I’m just your boss. You don’t need to care as much as you do.” 

He hears shuffling again, and then what almost sounds like a sniffle. “You don’t get it, do you?” 

Xia Fei sighs; Vein waits. 

“Sorry, but I don’t just see you as my boss. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be calling you like this. I wouldn’t be worrying myself sick over you wondering if something’s wrong, and if you’re really okay. Because here’s the thing—” 

Vein hears the sound of the bed creaking and blankets rustling. When Xia Fei speaks, his voice is stronger and unmuffled, like he’s sitting up. “When I’m with you, I actually feel good about myself. I feel seen, and to be honest, I have a really great time.” 

Something in Vein’s chest starts to twist. 

“My life was dull and gray when I met you. And then, it burst into color.”

It twists, pops, and ultimately—it breaks, leaving him shattered and open and vulnerable. Leaving him stupid, wanting, and breathless. It reminds him of Prometheus, chained to a boulder at the apex, struck still at the sight of a descending bird. 

In the end, Prometheus suffered for his love. 

“So yeah, I care about you. A lot. And I want you in my life. Is that such a funny thing?”

He knows that this is fragile—that they’re on the precipice of something, teetering ever so gently toward the fall. He imagines himself letting it happen, imagines leaping off the side of the walls he’s built around himself with Xia Fei tucked in his arms. He’d feel the wind rushing past him and a giddy, terrifying weightlessness in his chest as he kisses the shell of Xia Fei’s ear and tells him he’ll stay. 

He thinks about his rules, thinks about how Xia Fei tramples over every one of them. Money and power? Violence and faith? It’s all arbitrary. They bring him nothing, like an empty ship listing into a cold, silent harbor. 

These days, Vein only ever feels warm standing in Xia Fei’s light. 

“Tell me one of your stories, Felix,” he whispers, barely loud enough to be heard. 

There’s a pause on the other line. “I’m sorry?” 

Vein lets out a breathless laugh. “One of your stories. Like the ones you tell me about your day or your professors, or some funny thing that happened at work. Tell me about it.” 

Another pause. Longer this time. “So you want me to just talk about my day, or something like that? And that will help?”

Vein just wants to hear his voice. “Please, Xia Fei. ” 

He hears Xia Fei’s breath catch and the click of his piercing again. Evidently, his given name has an effect on him. Vein’s heart flutters like a canary trying to bust out of its cage. 

“Okay. I can do that. ” 

Xia Fei begins talking and Vein listens. He rambles on about an odd thing that happened in one of his physics lectures and Vein feels the tension in his muscles unravel, bit by bit like the unwinding of a clock. He hangs on to every word as he gathers himself upright and stumbles over to the bed. 

“Hey, boss?” Xia Fei asks after finishing his story. 

Vein pulls the blankets up over his chest, ignoring the still-present tremor in his hands. “Yes?” 

“I like when you call me my real name, by the way.” 

He feels delirious, like he’s had too much to drink with nothing in his stomach. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“So. Can I see you tomorrow? After the shoot I mean?” 

He imagines being there with him—imagines being curled up alongside Xia Fei and murmuring the details of this conversation into heated skin. “If that’s what you want.”

“Good. ‘Cause I’m definitely gonna be hungry.” 

Vein laughs, throwing an arm over his eyes. If he looks at anything too closely, he starts seeing stars. “Not so hungry that I’ll have to hide a horse from you, right?” 

Xia Fei laughs too. There’s a note of contented exhaustion in his voice as it drops to a gentle whisper: “I’m glad you’re okay, boss.”

He doesn’t know if he’s okay. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be okay for as long as he lives. He knows, in the deepest pit of him, that all of this is temporary—that one day Xia Fei will find out about the whole of him, about the hideousness and the wreckage he hides in plain sight. 

But god, he thinks, and he’s never been a pious man but he’d be willing to give it a shot if it meant he could keep this one thing: let me have this for as long as I can. 

“Thank you, Xia Fei,” he whispers back, clutching his phone tight like it's an extension of the man himself. “And sleep well.” 

That night, he dreams of being tied to a mountain. And of a young man, drenched in the light of the sun, climbing up to break his chains.