Chapter 83#

Yan Zishu stepped away to take the call. Fu Jinchi watched his back until he had crossed well onto the beach and was out of easy earshot.

He looked away, and picked up a fresh skewer of chicken wings to put on the grill.

By the time they were nearly done, the twin girls had drifted back over, noses working like small dogs. Fu Jinchi beckoned. They had seen Yan Zishu sitting beside him earlier; in their understanding, this was a pretty adult associated with a safe one, so he counted as approachable. Each of the twins received a honey-glazed wing. They seized their prizes and ran. Still no sign of Yan Zishu.

He wasn’t trying to keep anything from Fu Jinchi. The issue was that the grill area had inexplicably poor reception, and the call had dropped almost immediately after connecting.

But the number had persisted, calling back with an intent that seemed ready to continue indefinitely. Yan Zishu went looking for signal, found himself drifting, naturally, to the vicinity of the changing partitions by the beach — which solved the mystery of why Ding Hongbo had made that walk the last time.

That same number — roughly fifteen minutes before Yan Zishu’s missed call — had been in Ding Hongbo’s hand in his office on a high floor of a CBD tower, staring at the screen that had just shown a disconnected line. He was uncertain whether the other person had recognized his voice and ended the call deliberately. His nerve had briefly collapsed.

He put his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his palms, then rubbed his face with a dejected scrub.

But then, like someone making a final decision, he dialed again.

Ding Hongbo didn’t quite understand what was happening to him. It was only a phone call. The content was legitimate. He had turned the wording over in his mind many times, satisfied that it wouldn’t come across as anything inappropriate. And yet he felt as though he were doing something he had no business doing.

Perhaps because he knew what was in his own heart, and acted accordingly guilty.

He had always used the office line when calling Yan Zishu before. This was the first time he was using his private number.

Since that appalling dinner some weeks back, the memory of it — rather than fading — had settled in and made itself comfortable, surfacing periodically: a tangle of thorns and roses that returned without warning.

He could still recall the image of Yan Zishu being held by Fu Jinchi as he was fed wine.

Two men. There was no point denying that scene had been provocative.

But beyond the physical — Ding Hongbo had felt something he couldn’t quite name. Something like heartbreak.

He had even grown somewhat resentful: if he had never met Yan Zishu, he could have continued quite calmly on the path that had been laid out for him.

Every family had its own set of values. Back in university, classmates had occasionally mocked Ding Hongbo: your family really is that conservative? Are you sure you’re living in the twenty-first century? It was a classmate in that same period who had brought him into a rainbow student organization, and he had started showing signs of questioning what he’d been raised with. That came to an abrupt end — the complicated, disorganized relationships within that circle disturbed him deeply, and he’d retreated.

What he observed there extinguished the rebellious impulse almost as soon as it had ignited.

Since then, Ding Hongbo had decided that conservative was fine, and had accepted the plan of settling down with a suitable partner in the conventional way.

He had built a picture of his ideal companion over the years: learned and refined, warm and calm, mature and dependable, easy to be around, with no tendency toward dramatics. Looks weren’t critical, but tall and slender was preferable.

There were plenty of women who fit this description. He had dated freely through university, and every one of the several girlfriends he’d had had been selected on exactly this model — yet somehow, one by one, something wasn’t quite right, and none of them had lasted.

By now, Ding Hongbo had long given up the romantic idealism of early youth, had come to face things realistically, and was prepared to marry someone of suitable background even if she was shallow or willful. Arranged meetings produced acceptable matches. That was enough.

In practice, even when a suitable person appeared — someone like Lisa — Ding Hongbo found himself somehow resistant, had even been engineering her departure with the cold treatment for a while. But when the tabloid story had incidentally and inaccurately exposed what he’d been trying not to think about, though everyone dismissed it as fabrication, Ding Hongbo — from some panic he couldn’t even explain to himself — had hastily proposed.

Nobody knew that afterward, in a way he himself found shameful, he had quietly kept several copies of those tabloids with the photographs of him and Yan Zishu, hidden in a document sleeve in the depths of a locked drawer.

Yes. Ding Hongbo would not admit it, but Yan Zishu was exactly everything he had described in his ideal — each criterion fitting without adjustment, like something that had grown precisely in accordance with his wishes — appearing at the wrong time, in the wrong form.

By the time he understood what was happening, it had already caught fire.

But all of this improper feeling existed only internally, and Ding Hongbo was not going to act on it. He had proposed to Lisa, and he would not do anything that dishonored himself or her. This call to Yan Zishu was simply to offer him a way out.

“What kind of work?” Yan Zishu asked, the signal cutting in and out over electronic interference. “Sorry — reception’s bad.”

“It’s what I was saying before — you were looking for work, weren’t you?” Ding Hongbo was, inexplicably, relieved to hear this. “I said the main office was very competitive, but perhaps there are appropriate openings at the branch level.” No immediate response from the other end. He had started, so he kept going: “If you’re interested, I’ll send you a job description. You can have a look.”

Yan Zishu had arrived at the edge of the beach area and found a step to sit on, and expressed a polite decline.

“You don’t need to answer right away.” Ding Hongbo’s brow creased on his end. “Think about it at your own pace.”

“All right.” Yan Zishu agreed, then found a gentler way to indicate it wouldn’t work: “We’re planning to head back to the mainland next month. I’ll email you before then with an answer either way. Regardless, thank you for thinking of me.”

Ding Hongbo hadn’t anticipated he was leaving Hong Kong so soon. The news landed like a thunderclap; whatever he’d been about to say dissolved.

Coming back to himself, a note he couldn’t quite identify in his voice: “Are you — is it with… the person from last time?”

Yan Zishu’s voice was even: “Yes.”

A light tone: “As you saw, I’m being kept by him right now. Not exactly in a position to make independent decisions.”

Silence from the other end again. This time more prolonged — presumably genuinely at a loss for words. Yan Zishu stretched one leg out and propped his arm on his knee. He looked toward the horizon. A sea you’ve looked at long enough eventually smooths something out inside you.

Ding Hongbo needed some of his illusions dismantled. Yan Zishu knew what Ding Hongbo was imagining, and was deliberately painting himself as less flattering than he was.

This was simply the more efficient option. A polite refusal of a job offer still left Ding Hongbo room to hold onto things. But Ding Hongbo, who thought quite well of himself, would quickly discard a person he looked down on.

Yan Zishu was unsurprised to have confirmed that Ding Hongbo had genuine feelings toward him — but had no intention of being anyone’s unattainable ideal.

He couldn’t see Ding Hongbo’s expression over the phone, but he could imagine it was unpleasant. On the other end, it was.

Ding Hongbo had an impulse to say you’re not that kind of person — then found the words had no real foundation. Did he actually know what kind of person Yan Zishu was? What if Yan Zishu had chosen this — despite everything — of his own free will?

Yan Zishu prepared to end the call and let Ding Hongbo sit with it — but Ding Hongbo asked: “Why are you like this?”

“Why?” Yan Zishu found this almost funny. “Being kept by someone versus working for yourself — obviously the first one is easier.”

“How long do you think someone like that is going to support you?” Ding Hongbo’s patience was fraying. “You think you can live like that forever?”

“That would be a matter between him and me.” Yan Zishu said. “I think you may be paying slightly too much attention to my business.”

Something in Ding Hongbo cracked through: he had believed Yan Zishu to be clear-eyed, self-possessed — and now found him contentedly making himself a dependent without apparent shame. The gap between what he’d imagined and this filled him with an almost physical bitterness.

“You accused me of looking down on people and seeing things with bias. But when you let yourself go like this — how do you expect anyone to respect you?”

“Because I don’t require anyone’s respect.” Yan Zishu said, entirely calmly. “And Mr. Ding — you know your own heart better than I do. Your engagement party is imminent, you’re supposed to be busy — why exactly are you finding time to make this call?”

Ding Hongbo felt exposed: “I was only—”

“Ding Hongbo, your reasons are irrelevant.” Yan Zishu cut across him — this was the directness of the professional world, which he hadn’t used much since leaving it, but which had not gone anywhere. The tone was firm enough to be a reproach: “I’ll be honest — I’m not exactly a person of impeccable conduct. You’re quite welcome to look down on me for living off another man. But someone who acts against his own conscience in a dark room doesn’t come off any better.”

He hung up. Whether they had parted on bad terms or not — Yan Zishu thought Ding Hongbo would probably not be calling again.

When he turned back, Fu Jinchi had materialized at some point on the step behind him, and had sat down.

Yan Zishu said: “I’m done. Let’s head back.” But didn’t move.

The sound of waves. Fu Jinchi asked, knowing the answer: “Who was that?”

“A headhunter, in principle.” Yan Zishu said, with a straight face. “But it seems the opportunity may no longer be available.”

Fu Jinchi gave a regretful oh. “That’s fine — I can still just about afford to feed you.”

Yan Zishu laughed and readily agreed: “Yes — I don’t eat much.”

They walked back, talking. Yan Zishu decided he had fully put the Ding family business behind him.

The outdoor barbecue ended to universal and enthusiastic approval of Fu Jinchi’s marinades — people broke into impressed applause at one point and demanded his secrets in a clamor. He had become, rather suddenly, the center of attention.

Fu Jinchi’s response appeared mild, but his eyes were cool and flat. He was willing to do this for Yan Zishu, but had no patience for the general public’s enthusiasm. Yan Zishu noticed, and quietly redirected the topic of conversation without making it visible.

Everyone helped clear up. No one noticed the shift.

From the outside, what was visible was Fu Jinchi looking after Yan Zishu’s needs. What was also true was that Yan Zishu was serving as the connector between Fu Jinchi and ordinary social life.

Zeng Peirong and some of the others had to catch the early ferry home; those who weren’t rushed stayed over in guesthouses on the island. The ones who remained gathered in a small courtyard together. Yan Zishu and Fu Jinchi were among them.

Zeng Peirong’s group needed to practice Christmas carols ahead of a performance. There was a small piano in the sitting room; someone had brought sheet music, and they asked if anyone who wasn’t singing could accompany. Yan Zishu had learned as a child and sat down to rediscover it, finding the feel of things again, accompanying them at a slow pace.

It was uneven at first. Once his hands remembered, it smoothed out, and the group’s standards were forgiving. As the feel of the keys came back fully, he eventually tried something he had once known well — Mariage d’Amour.

Fu Jinchi wasn’t seated. He stood in the doorway, arms folded, the way everyone else who was listening held themselves — still, breathing quietly, watching.

Yan Zishu played with a relaxed ease; the technique wasn’t exceptional, but the notes were clean and precise, and the melody moved like something being told unhurriedly. Fu Jinchi smiled.

When Yan Zishu looked up, their eyes met.

Yan Zishu said nothing. But Fu Jinchi knew the piece was for him.

It was written in his eyes.

By nearly midnight, even the most energetic people had grown tired. The two who were staying at the sanatorium said their goodbyes.

It was clear that Yan Zishu was genuinely liked among this group of young people. His easy manner and his gift for making people feel at home made it effortless for him to fit in when he chose to. Fu Jinchi walked behind him as they left; they moved under the streetlights, side by side, in the direction of the sanatorium.

The night wind was sharp. The cold pressed at the outside of their coats.

After a full day, neither of them felt like talking. They walked the night road in companionable silence, and didn’t find it empty. Yan Zishu watched their shadows on the ground. When the noise of a gathering finally fades and the people have gone, but someone is still there beside you — that was, properly considered, a kind of perfection.

Yan Zishu reached out and took Fu Jinchi’s hand. Fu Jinchi responded immediately. Their fingers interlocked and held.

Fu Jinchi’s palm was always warmer and drier than his own. He made a soft sound of reproach: “Your hands are still this cold.”

He took Yan Zishu’s hand in both of his and wrapped it up, warming it.

But then he became restless — sliding between his fingers in a way that made the word innocent entirely inapplicable, and then lightly scratching his palm. Just a hand held and played with — and yet Yan Zishu felt a small shiver run through him, as though the whole of him were in that hand: “Stop that.”

“Stopping.” Fu Jinchi dipped his head and pressed a light kiss to his palm. Not heavy, not absent — just enough to linger.

Yan Zishu smiled, and curled his fingers, holding the kiss closed in his palm.

In the days that followed, they were as caught up as everyone else in Hong Kong in the preparations for the holiday.

The sanatorium had put small Christmas trees in each room for residents to decorate as they liked, a kit of tinsel and lights and ornaments available to pick up.

One afternoon Fu Jinchi came in to find Yan Zishu standing in the middle of the living room, contemplating a chest-high Christmas tree with a pile of colored decorations on the floor around him.

Fu Jinchi stood in the doorway and watched for a moment.

Men, he reflected — now that they had resumed a certain kind of activity, he found he often didn’t want to do anything at all except think about what new variation he could try with Yan Zishu. For instance right now, he was thinking the ribbon would be better tied around Yan Zishu than around the tree.

As for seasonal rituals — Fu Jinchi had always found them tedious unless there was a purpose behind them.

Besides, as he’d planned, he hadn’t intended to spend Christmas at the sanatorium at all.

Hong Kong had large public celebrations — everywhere filled to capacity, reservations difficult to secure. For Fu Jinchi this was of course not a problem. He had made thorough preparations, in all respects.

He sometimes wondered whether Yan Zishu still thought back to who he had been before: the person buried in work, solitary, self-contained, moving through identical days as though private life were not a category that applied to him.

Now Fu Jinchi wanted to lure him out of that with every ordinary pleasure and sensory warmth available — and had been succeeding, whether in excursions or in gatherings — all toward the same end.

To make it impossible for him to go back to that cold stone seat.

But the tree did get decorated. Yan Zishu enlisted Fu Jinchi, and between the two of them they managed: a star at the top, small angels and gold spheres on the branches. Their collective decorating imagination was probably no match for an experienced child, but it had the right spirit.

Then, contrary to all plans, the day before Christmas Eve, Yan Zishu had been feeling light-headed all day — feet barely connected to the floor. He hadn’t thought much of it in the morning. By the afternoon, Fu Jinchi had a bad feeling, pressed the back of his hand to Yan Zishu’s forehead, and produced a thermometer. 39.8°C.

There it was. Nowhere to go.

Whether this was the universe’s response to excessive contentment — joy inviting its opposite — was hard to say.

The nurse came to give an injection. Fu Jinchi wiped Yan Zishu’s hand with an alcohol pad. “You didn’t notice?”

Yan Zishu genuinely hadn’t. He was just sore all over, and felt some remorse — he hadn’t wanted to be a damper at this particular time.

Nothing to be done about it now. Plans were cancelled, all of them. Health first, everything else secondary; if this high fever turned into pneumonia again that would be a serious problem. The clothes he’d already dressed in for going out were exchanged back for pajamas, and he was sent back to bed under Fu Jinchi’s supervision.

The sanatorium was quiet at this time of year — everyone who could go home had gone. Apart from a few nurses on duty, the corridors felt empty.

Since they couldn’t go out, they stayed in — their own small world with the door closed. Yan Zishu wrapped in his duvet, tucked in the circle of Fu Jinchi’s arms, watching a film together. They had picked an easy, energetic Hollywood comedy; the jokes came fast enough that the room filled with undiluted cheer.

Outside, church bells carried in from a distance, and then the music of Joy to the World. It was all far away, but not entirely beyond reach.

Yan Zishu had started to feel everything properly by now — the feverish heat, the aching joints, the raw throat, discomfort gathering in all directions.

The medication began to work. Somewhere in the middle of the film his eyes started failing him; he fell asleep against Fu Jinchi without meaning to.

Fu Jinchi laid him down gently.

The fever made his dreams turbulent. He surfaced twice in the night, disoriented both times, and it took a long moment to establish where and when he was; Fu Jinchi put down his phone and came close, leaning over him with a kiss.

Yan Zishu, hoarse: “You’ll catch it.”

Fu Jinchi: “I won’t.”

People with fevers got cold easily. Yan Zishu held onto him, trying to draw warmth.

By the next morning, the fever had mostly broken.

Good news, but still not well enough for any excursion. Yan Zishu had the television on — the festive noise of the outside world coming in — and retrieved a new board game from the recreation room, then sat with Fu Jinchi to play out a mystery scenario. Whatever the circumstances, you might as well do something enjoyable.

Around late morning, Fu Jinchi brought it up unprompted: “The Ding person’s engagement ceremony is this morning, isn’t it?”

Yan Zishu was sorting cards. He looked up: “Hm?”