Chapter 74#

Ding Hongbo was momentarily at a loss for words. Yan Zishu had already turned and continued in the direction of the sanatorium.

Their destinations were different — he was heading back to rest, while Ding Hongbo still had to return to the barbecue.

Not the same road.

The slender figure moved further away, the back of his shirt and his trouser legs caught by the wind. There was something distinctly solitary about the sight. Ding Hongbo stood with a furrowed brow, unsure how he’d ended up saying so much, and vaguely feeling that the man looked as thin as a sheet of paper — like he might be swept into the sea at any moment.

He watched this unwelcome acquaintance leave with a flat expression.

As for Yan Zishu — he was the recipient of Ding Hongbo’s sudden, unprompted outpouring, and didn’t think it amounted to any genuine hardship. Honestly, Ding Hongbo might as well just be direct about it, the way Lily had been — admit that being rich means you can afford to be difficult about these things.

The way Ding Hongbo described himself, you’d think he was after some grand meeting of minds — claiming he didn’t want to marry someone beautiful but intellectually empty. There were excellent women with doctorates at every top university in Hong Kong. What was stopping him from seeking out someone with actual intellectual compatibility?

What Yan Zishu hadn’t expected was that, only a day later, even he would find himself briefly linked, in some corner of the press, to this wealthy young heir.

That day, he had been in his room reading when Ding Laoxiansheng called and asked him to come down to the sitting room.

The baroque-style sitting room was furnished with quiet elegance. On the white European-style sofa: the old gentleman on one side, and across from him a young woman in some distress — white lace blouse, black silk mermaid skirt, dark hair pinned up with a few loose strands falling around her face in a way that suggested things hadn’t been going to plan. Her makeup, originally precise, had been undone somewhat by crying.

Ding Laoxiansheng was sitting nearby, gently consoling her. Yan Zishu caught the name Lisa from some distance away.

So this was the Lisa that Ding Hongbo had been performing the role of a terrible boyfriend in order to get rid of.

Yan Zishu couldn’t immediately think of what he had to do with any of this. When Ding Laoxiansheng saw him come in, he beckoned him to sit, then turned to the tearful Lisa to introduce him — this was the gentleman from the news report, please have a look, there’s nothing to worry about.

Lisa, eyes still damp, looked at him with suspicious scrutiny.

Yan Zishu let her look, having no idea what this was about.

On the coffee table were two tabloids with loud, busy layouts. He picked one up, and very nearly choked.

Hong Kong’s gossip press excelled at sensationalism. Ding Jiansheng’s eldest grandson suspected of cheating on girlfriend — spotted at outlying island with secret same-sex companion. Complete with photographs: in the upper left corner, a solo shot of Lisa, the supposedly wronged girlfriend; the rest of the page taken up with long-distance photos of Yan Zishu and Ding Hongbo walking side by side along the beach, and even one of them sitting near each other eating at the barbecue.

The article itself was considerably worse, fabricating an extensive analysis of how young master Ding Hongbo had developed a change of heart — setting aside a girlfriend as perfectly lovely as flowers — which was now apparently attributable to his homosexuality, having at last found his true love.

Naturally, the paparazzi had been after Ding Hongbo.

The photos were low resolution; Yan Zishu mostly appeared in profile or partially obscured by Ding Hongbo’s tall frame. Lisa had spent a considerable amount of time comparing, and seemed to have finally confirmed that yes, the figure in the gossip piece was indeed the man now sitting in front of her.

Ding Laoxiansheng and Lisa were speaking in Cantonese, the conversation fast and liberally interspersed with English. Yan Zishu followed with difficulty, catching enough to understand the general shape.

Ding Laoxiansheng was telling Lisa not to believe tabloid nonsense. The BBQ had been a family gathering — he himself had been there the entire time. What secret rendezvous was anyone talking about?

And furthermore: the supposed same-sex companion was the man sitting right here — someone with no connection whatsoever to Ding Hongbo. Ding Laoxiansheng was vouching for him as simply a fellow patient’s acquaintance, with absolutely no romantic dimension, the two of them not even remotely in the relevant category.

Lisa, stubborn and red-eyed, studied Yan Zishu with an expression that didn’t quite let go of the suspicion.

In her eyes, the man in front of her was on the slender side, but unquestionably good-looking — quietly composed, glasses, a scholarly quality that coexisted with a composed alertness. Setting gender aside, he actually fit a certain aesthetic she associated with Ding Hongbo.

The Ding Hongbo she knew.

Ding Laoxiansheng was exhausting his words to no visible effect, increasingly exasperated. Finally he gave Yan Zishu a look — a clear appeal to corroborate what he was saying.

Yan Zishu had been taking stock of the situation since he walked in, and had deliberated for some time. Eventually he said:

“You have nothing to worry about — I have no connection to Mr. Ding Hongbo. But my own sexual orientation is a personal matter.”

For certain binary questions, no comment was, in practice, a clear enough answer.

There was a beat of silence after he finished speaking. Both Ding Laoxiansheng and Lisa looked startled.

Ding Laoxiansheng in particular was visibly stunned — his expression said approximately how were you this kind of person all along.

Yan Zishu rose, gave a brief nod to both of them indicating this was no longer his business, and left first.

He hadn’t been in any particular rush to out himself in circumstances where it wasn’t necessary. But this was different: he had been drawn into someone else’s relationship situation, and honesty was the wiser course. If he told one lie and was later caught out, nothing he said afterward would be easily believed.

The initial reaction to seeing the tabloid had been genuine surprise. Once he’d settled down, realizing that the actual target was Ding Hongbo and not himself, he felt half the concern lift. What he genuinely didn’t want was to become unnecessarily entangled in Ding Hongbo’s affairs — that part was completely sincere.

Walking along a beach in broad daylight, and a paparazzo still picked it up and invented a whole story. That was irksome, as luck went.

Though if he thought about it — Ding Hongbo had been going out of his way to treat Lisa coldly, which had driven her to a state where she suspected everyone and trusted no one. He’d effectively caused his own problem.

Yan Zishu found himself in an uncomfortable middle position.

He couldn’t very well go back to Ding Laoxiansheng and report what he knew — that the grandson was running a deliberate strategy to make a match he didn’t want call the thing off. On the other hand, knowing Ding Hongbo hadn’t been behaving well, and watching Lisa turning a suspicious gaze on everyone as though they were all trying to steal her boyfriend — he had some sympathy for her, but no way to say anything useful.

There wasn’t much else to be done. If she could come to her own conclusions and break things off with Ding Hongbo cleanly, that would honestly be better for everyone.

Yan Zishu stayed in his room for the rest of the day. He didn’t know when Lisa finally left.

The next day, encountering Ding Laoxiansheng at the sanatorium, the old gentleman was yawning extravagantly — he’d clearly spent considerable energy the day before managing the young woman. Now that Yan Zishu’s orientation had become visible, the old man’s eyes flickered when they spoke, but nothing came of it.

By this point in a long life, there was probably nothing new to encounter in the world at large; it simply took some adjustment when it appeared close to home.

Yan Zishu behaved as though nothing had happened.

In the end, those few pieces of gossip press had very little impact on his life.

The Ding family was a media conglomerate — suppressing two minor tabloids was entirely within their casual reach. And Hong Kong itself was a tiny place where you might stumble into a film star at the shopping centre any given day. More explosive gossip was generated daily than anyone could follow. Ding Hongbo, heir to a wealthy family though he was, was one of dozens of such figures on the island; who was going to focus on him indefinitely?

Much less pay attention to someone like Yan Zishu, who had no public profile at all.

Though it would be inaccurate to say there was no one who minded.

One particular person.

Yan Zishu’s internal clock no longer locked onto six o’clock with its former precision. He could sleep in, though he typically woke early regardless. When he came to consciousness one morning, his mind still lagging behind, he tried to turn over instinctively and found he couldn’t move.

He opened his eyes. The bedroom was half-lit — the blackout curtains were tied up, the sheer curtains filtering the early morning light in soft gradients.

In the chair by the bed, someone was sitting. Watching him in silence. How long they’d been there was impossible to say.

The scene was familiar — except the time had shifted from the middle of the night to early morning. This person truly never changed.

Yan Zishu let out a slow breath, voice rough from sleep: “When did you get back?”

His heart was beating faster — from the shock of finding someone in the room, or from Fu Jinchi appearing in front of him without warning. Possibly both.

He tried to move and discovered only then why he couldn’t. Both his hands were cuffed to the headboard.

His mind hadn’t finished coming back online. He hadn’t yet processed the situation when Fu Jinchi pressed forward, supporting himself above Yan Zishu’s body.

“What is this?” Yan Zishu asked, somewhat blankly.

“That’s not the question for me to ask.” Fu Jinchi was very close to his ear. “What have you done that you think would make me unhappy?”

The warmth of his breath against Yan Zishu’s ear. Yan Zishu turned his head; Fu Jinchi caught his jaw and turned it back.

“No need to look. The papers are on the table — I’ll show you later if you want to see them.”

“Which papers?” Then Yan Zishu understood. “No need. I’ve already seen them.”

“Have you.” Fu Jinchi’s voice was cold. “Then you’d better come up with a reasonable explanation for yourself.”

Yan Zishu looked at him steadily, and rather than being alarmed, gave a quiet laugh. “Then move your ear a little closer.”

Fu Jinchi did as instructed, lowering his head further.

Yan Zishu lifted his head slightly, and let his lips brush across Fu Jinchi’s cheek — the lightest possible contact.

Fu Jinchi’s gaze deepened. He reversed the dynamic entirely, taking command, pressing closer, breath and mouth entangled.

Yan Zishu closed his eyes comfortably in his arms, the posture of something offered willingly — compliant in a way that extinguished one flame in Fu Jinchi and lit another, burning steadily in his eyes. Fu Jinchi knew perfectly well that this apparent prey was actually a skilled hunter, the kind who managed the most profound desires and the subtlest shifts of feeling with effortless precision.

He still carried the sharp outdoor cold on him, on his shoulders, seeping through the thin sleep clothes and into the skin it reached, then fading.

Fu Jinchi remembered something, straightened up, shrugged off his coat, dropped it on the floor, and pressed his elbow back to the bedside.

The daylight continued to strengthen, filtered through the water-soluble embroidery on the sheer curtains into diffused, gentle brightness, illuminating two figures in the room.

After a long time, he finally let go of everything dark and held his head against Yan Zishu’s, his voice lower now: “Did you miss me?”

“Could you uncuff me before I answer?” Yan Zishu asked.

“No.” Fu Jinchi said, with feeling. “Punishment.”

“Oh, come on.” Yan Zishu was somewhere between amused and resigned. “When did you start believing that kind of thing? That was written by a journalist making things up.”

“I don’t believe it.” Fu Jinchi said. “But I’m still angry. How is it that the moment I’m not watching you, things like this happen? Why did you have to get that close to him?”

“You mean Ding Hongbo?”

“Don’t say his name.” Fu Jinchi cut him off. “Old or young, none of them. Right now you have only me.”

“Fu Jinchi.” Yan Zishu looked up at him. “Who I spend time with, and how — that’s my freedom. You know that.”

“…Yes.” Fu Jinchi’s gaze dropped, his expression unreadable — like a dormant volcano, long quieted but not without its dangers.

Yan Zishu tilted his head back and looked at the headboard, pulled twice, and slid his right hand free of the cuff. Both hands were free — though the cuff was still hanging from his left wrist. He held it up to examine it, and found it wasn’t a real one. Just a prop.

Fu Jinchi lay down beside him, not speaking, with the faint air of someone who’d lost interest in the whole proceeding, and dug the key out of his pocket and tossed it over.

Yan Zishu found himself, as usual, defeated by him.

It was fair to say, though — switching perspectives, this wasn’t incomprehensible. If it had been a photo of Fu Jinchi with someone else, splashed across a tabloid with a fabricated story about an affair, he would certainly have been furious too. Not because of the question of whether it was true.

Yan Zishu smiled, didn’t bother unlocking anything. Instead he flipped the empty cuff ring inward, turned it, and twisted it open — then reached out, caught one of Fu Jinchi’s hands, and clicked it shut. Click. The two of them, cuffed together. “Happy now?”