Shanghai glittered like broken glass.
Rain carved the neon into ribbons and dragged them down the tower faces; scooter horns wailed like impatient birds in a steel jungle far below. The rooftop bar breathed out warm light, expensive laughter, the clink of ice in glasses that cost more than a dinner for two. Wind found the gaps under the awnings and slid a cold knife along the spine of anyone who dared the railing.
Xu Jian stood there anyway.
He was twenty-one, barely, with that terrible, luminous beauty hunger carves into a boy's face. His skin was light and fine as paper, the kind that remembers every touch. Under the vapor-lit rain his features looked drawn with a careful brush: delicate nose, soft mouth, a jaw too slight to hold up the life he'd been given. He had dressed cheap but neat, the way he always did: a white shirt washed thin and ironed flat with the bottom of a hot mug; black trousers that fit well enough if you didn't look at the hems he'd hand-stitched; knockoff sneakers wiped clean with a napkin in the bathroom downstairs. The belt was plastic. The jacket was secondhand, button missing at the cuff where he'd sewn on a mismatched one and told himself it didn't show.
It showed. Everything did.
He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, trying and failing to drown out rain and fear. A split sat at the corner of his lower lip, tiny, angry, and a shadow of bruising crept up under his shirt collar where teeth had not been kind. He kept pulling the fabric closed, then forgetting, then opening it again as the damp clung and the wind turned his ribs into a map.
He was tipsy. The kind of woozy that makes the railing flirt with your weight, the kind of warm that doesn't reach your fingers. He laughed too late when men near him joked; he smiled too sharp when they looked away. Numbness was a mercy he bought in mouthfuls when noodles were too expensive.
An hour earlier a client had used him like something meant to be broken. Jian could still hear the voice, lacquered with money and contempt, calling him "little Henan dog" even though he'd left Henan when he was twelve and had learned to say his R's the Shanghai way. He could still feel the buckle's cold kiss through fabric, the slap whose echo he told himself he didn't hear because the room had been so soft, so carpeted. At the end: coins in an ashtray, a gesture meant to be generous and coming out like spit. Two red notes and change. "Good boy," the man had said, buttoning his shirt with a bored grace. Jian had nodded because you nod when the door is the only thing between you and the rest of the night.
He lit a cigarette now with hands that trembled anyway. The flame cupped his face in small, kind gold. Up close his lashes were wet spikes; his eyes were glass: black, shining, bottomless because he had nothing left to throw in.
Across the roof, Zhou Kai drank beer with a friend.
Kai was the sort of man women liked without needing to explain why: tall, broad through the chest and shoulders, the weight of him earned under sun and steel instead of mirrors. A clean jaw, hair pushed back by the rain's hand, a plain dark shirt rolled at the sleeves to reveal forearms roped with work. He wore an old analog watch and a wedding band tan-line that said time had touched him honestly. His knuckles were scarred, not by fights he bragged about, by bolts and pipes and the rude edge of a bad day. When he laughed, it was short and warm. When he listened, he stilled his whole body.
"Another for you?" his friend Chen Hao asked, signaling at the server.
Kai shook his head, lifting his bottle. "I'm good." His voice was simple, confident, the cadence of a man who didn't decorate his sentences because truth had never needed ribbon for him. A hostess passing by smiled at him for no reason and looked away quickly when he caught it. He had that effect. Realness attracts the tired.
Chen Hao followed the line of Kai's gaze toward the glass railing. "That one's trouble," he said lightly, chin jerking at Jian. "Pretty in a way that makes men stupid."
Kai didn't answer. He watched the boy's hand shake around the cigarette, the way he leaned not like someone posing but like a person who didn't trust his own knees. He watched the tight little flinch when thunder peeled close, how it died into a practiced smirk a blink later. He watched the neatness, the careful collar, the scrubbed sneakers and the economy beneath it: every choice made to look acceptable with not quite enough.
"You know him?" Chen Hao asked.
"No," Kai said. Then, after a beat: "I know the look."
Chen Hao took a pull from his beer. "Leave it. This isn't your job."
"It's nobody's job," Kai said, eyes still on Jian. "That's the problem."
Jian caught him looking and tilted his head in that small, weaponized way that says I see you seeing me and I know how to turn it into rent. His accent thickened when he called out, tired making his vowels widen, countryside tucked still in the corners of his mouth. "You'll catch cold out here, laoban," he said, lips curling brave and bright around the insult of rain.
"You'll fall if you lean any further," Kai answered, stepping away from the table. Hao rolled his eyes and stayed seated. He knew the look too, not the one on Jian's face, the one on Kai's. The trouble look. The I'm going anyway.
Jian laughed, smoke leaking from the split at his lip. "If I fall, someone will catch." He gestured lazily at the door. "Plenty of hands."
"Hands aren't arms," Kai said. "Hands let go."
"Arms cost more," Jian shot back, quick, and even he heard the despair fit under the joke like a blade in a sleeve.
The wind shoved rain under the awning and cold fingers found Jian's damp shirt. He shivered, only once, then made a performance of flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. It had gone out. He shook it anyway.
Kai struck a lighter. He held it out without stepping into Jian's space. Flame bowed in the wind and stood again.
For half a second, Jian saw his own face reflected in the lighter's polished back. The vision made him wince. He leaned in. Their eyes met over the tiny sun cupped in metal. Jian breathed and the flame caught, and the smell of burning tobacco told him he had won a small battle against the night.
"Xie," he said, voice low, the sibilant soft. He couldn't bring himself to say the whole thank-you. Gratitude had too often been mistaken for permission.
Kai nodded once. "Zhou Kai."
"Xu Jian." He had other names. None of them sounded better.
"You're shaking," Kai said, not unkindly.
"I'm cold," Jian lied.
"You're drunk," Kai replied.
"That too," Jian allowed. "Make it easier to love the city."
"Does it love you back?" Kai asked.
Jian smiled with his eyes shut so it would hurt less. "Enough to kiss and run."
From behind them came a burst of laughter, a clatter of glasses. Chen Hao lifted his beer in a little salute that said I see what you're doing and I'll still be here when it goes wrong. A server tucked a stray curl behind her ear and winked at Kai as she passed; Jian watched it with that terrible, empty patience the very young learn when they have nothing to trade but themselves.
"Your friend thinks I'm trouble," Jian said.
"My friend thinks I should mind my beer," Kai said. "He's usually right."
"Then mind it," Jian murmured, already pulling his mask back on. The late-night crowd had a rhythm. It was nearly the hour where men who shouldn't be out called cars and made meager offers. Jian took one long drag, then exhaled slow. "You didn't ask how much."
Kai's gaze didn't waver. "What are you worth?"
Jian's head snapped a little, as if the question had struck him above the ear. No one asked that. They asked for times, for acts, for discounts. They didn't ask for a number that could not be pulled from a pocket.
"What I can get," he said, careful, suddenly sober at the edges. "Tonight? Bus fare, maybe. If I smile right."
"You smiled wrong," Kai said gently. "You smiled like it hurt."
"That's the fashion," Jian said. "Pain looks good on light skin."
They stood in a small weather of their own making. The rain went on filing the glass around them. Jian's cigarette burned down hot and fast; he held it like a tiny torch that might guide him to the next bad decision.
A black car slid up to the curb below with the sound of money already spent. The back window dropped a little. A hand tapped the door. Jian's stomach cinched. Hunger tightened the world to a tunnel: car, cash, warmth for an hour, silence after. He glanced down the stairs and then at Kai, who was neither client nor exit, and the panic looked out through his eyes before he tucked it away.
"Work," Jian said, voice flat. "Nice meeting you."
He took one step toward the stairs and the city tilted under his damp soles. The railing held him like a stranger who had no time. Kai's hand, warm, big, callused, closed around Jian's wrist and stopped him the way a good knot stops a fall.
"What?" Jian snapped, the word brittle. "You going to buy me or bless me? Pick one."
"Neither," Kai said. His grip was firm but he wasn't squeezing. "Just... don't go down there like this."
"Like what?" Jian asked, chewing the word up.
"Like a boy who just left a man who hurt him," Kai said, simple and devastating.
Jian forgot his smirk. For one second the mask blew back like a cheap umbrella turned inside out and the true face shook in the rain: a child who'd learned his worth in coins and commands and the weather's indifference. The cigarette trembled. Ash fell hot on the back of his hand. He didn't flinch.
He pulled his wrist free. "You don't even know me," he whispered.
"I don't have to," Kai said. He slid his lighter into Jian's breast pocket, gentle as tucking in a note. "I know the look."
From below, the car's horn pecked the night. Jian's breath went thin and tight. The hunger inside him howled: noodles, soap, rent, three days of not fainting at noon. The part of him that was still a boy, the part that had hidden his grandmother's oranges so his cousins wouldn't take them, pushed up through the shame and pressed two words against his teeth: help me.
He swallowed them. The roof kept its secrets. So did he.
"Raining hard," Kai said, as if they'd started here. "You'll get sick."
Jian made a show of flicking water from his hair. "I'm always sick," he said. "Hunger flu."
Hao called something light and useless from the table; Kai ignored him.
"I'm going," Jian said.
"Okay," Kai said.
Jian blinked. "That's it?"
"I can't carry you away from yourself," Kai said. "I can only say there's a door upstairs that isn't a car."
Jian nearly laughed. It would have come out like a wound.
He tucked his chin into his collar against the wind and went for the stairs anyway. Kai watched him walk, the too-careful neatness of a poor boy trying to be acceptable, the pride straightening his back, the sway that said the world wasn't steady under him. The elevator dinged somewhere, a soft, polite sound that didn't belong to emergencies.
At the bottom of the stairs, Jian stopped and looked back. Kai hadn't moved. He stood as if the roof belonged to him and the rain asked permission. The server passed with another beer for Chen Hao and a shy, automatic smile for Kai. Jian saw it and hated how easy it looked; he lifted his hand in a little empty salute and vanished into the stairwell.
Chen Hao whistled low. "You're not following?"
Kai finished his bottle and set it down with care. "He'll be back," he said, not certain, only hopeful. "Or the storm will be."
Below, the car door opened.
Above, rain stitched the sky back together.
And between, on a stairwell landing with a bulb that hummed like an old breath, a boy who had taught himself to be neat when he had nothing turned the lighter over in his pocket and tried to decide whether the flame would carry him to survival...
The stairwell smelled of plaster rot and cigarette ash. Xu Jian's shoes squeaked on the wet steps as he went down, lighter heavy in his pocket. Each floor closer to the ground thickened the ache in his belly. By the time he stepped out into the alley, hunger was a knife and the black sedan was waiting.
The back door cracked open before he touched the handle. A man leaned out, face slick with money's smug sheen, chain fat around his neck, watch flashing with the wet. His eyes were small and sharp, his smile all appetite.
"Come," he said, voice slurring with liquor. "Pretty little countryside thing. I'll give you what you're worth."
Xu Jian climbed in without hesitation. Rent was due. Rice was gone. Soap didn't buy itself. He had stopped caring about dignity years ago. The leather seat was cold against his thighs, his shirt clung damp and transparent. The man's hand was on him before the door closed.
It was rough. Not rough the way some men asked for. Rough the way men were when they wanted to remind you you were nothing. Fingers bruised his jaw, forced his mouth open. Words spat into his ear, ugly, degrading, full of laughter that wasn't about pleasure at all.
"Henan dog," the man hissed. "Cheapest fuck in Shanghai. That's what you are, isn't it? Nod."
Jian nodded. He always nodded. Easier that way.
The belt came next, buckle biting his ribs. Jian flinched, too slow. His breath hitched. He thought he could take it. He always could. Until tonight, when the liquor made his knees weak, when hunger made his stomach fold. He gagged, choked on the hand forcing his head down.
"Too much for you? Then cry. Cry, boy."
Jian's eyes blurred, tears rising unbidden. He hated himself for it. His throat burned. His chest squeezed.
Then the car door ripped open.
The man swore, jerked upright. Jian gasped in air like it was gold. Hands dragged him out into the rain, hard enough to make his knees buckle against the slick pavement.
Zhou Kai shoved him back against the car, wide shoulders blotting out the storm. His voice cracked like iron on stone.
"Out."
The man sneered. "Who the fuck...? You want him? Pay like the rest of us."
Kai slammed the door with his palm so hard the metal groaned. "I said out."
For a moment, the alley held only thunder and breath. Then the man cursed again, spat, and pulled off into the night, tires shrieking against wet asphalt.
The red tail lights vanished.
Xu Jian slid down the car door until he hit the ground. His breath came ragged, chest heaving. He tried to light a cigarette but his hands shook too hard.
"Don't," Kai said, crouching beside him. His hand hovered near Jian's wrist, not touching, waiting.
Jian bared his teeth like a cornered stray. "What the fuck did you do that for? That was money. I needed it." His voice cracked on needed, humiliation sharper than any bruise.
Kai's jaw worked, rain running off his hair and down his throat. "He would have broken you."
Jian laughed, harsh and ugly, choking on the sound. "What do you think I'm for?" His eyes glistened with tears he refused to let fall. "That's the job. I take what they give, I crawl out after. That's how I live."
"You call that living?"
Jian's lip curled. "Alive enough." He staggered to his feet, swaying, lighting his cigarette at last. Smoke stung the cut in his mouth. "You fucked it up. He won't call again."
"Good."
"Good?" Jian barked out a bitter laugh. "That's dinner I don't eat. That's rent I don't pay. You gonna cover that too, laoban?"
Kai didn't move, didn't flinch. He only shrugged out of his jacket, heavy canvas worn at the cuffs, smelling of smoke and steel dust. He draped it over Jian's trembling shoulders without asking.
"Come with me."
Jian stared at him, stunned, cigarette burning down to his fingers. He wanted to spit it back, to walk into another car, to pretend he hadn't been rescued. Pride burned his throat. But the warmth of the jacket sank into his bones, and his stomach clawed at him with hunger he could no longer ignore.
The cigarette hissed in a puddle.
When Zhou Kai turned and walked toward the street, Xu Jian followed.
The apartment was two flights up in a concrete block that smelled of garlic and damp plaster. The hall light flickered, buzzing tired. Kai unlocked a green door and pushed it open.
Inside was warmth. Not wealth. just warmth. A bed against the wall, a rack of drying clothes, the faint smell of detergent and soy sauce. A stack of newspapers by the window. Everything had a place. It was the kind of home that had been held together by steady hands, not by money.
Jian stood dripping in the doorway, too cheap, too dirty, too wrong. He should have turned back.
"Sit," Kai said simply, nodding at the low table.
Jian sank down because his legs gave him no choice. His hands shook when he tried to light another cigarette.
The kitchen clattered. Metal hissed. The smell of broth rose, garlic, scallions, the rich heat of something real. Jian's stomach cramped so hard he nearly doubled over.
When Kai returned, he set a bowl of noodles in front of him. Steam rose into Jian's hollow face.
"Eat."
Jian stared, then scoffed, but the chopsticks in his hand betrayed him. He ate like a starving animal, broth spilling down his chin, noodles vanishing too fast, chest heaving. He hated the tears pricking his eyes more than he hated the hunger.
Xu Jian dragged the last of the broth across his tongue as though salt and garlic could stitch the hole in him. His stomach cramped, punishing him for eating too fast, but the warmth spread anyway, dizzying, dangerous.
He set the chopsticks down with a little clatter and leaned back against the wall. The jacket Kai had given him slid from his shoulders, damp hair sticking to his temples. He hated how he must have looked, too thin, ribs showing sharp under the cheap shirt, collar marked by bruises that no towel could erase.
Zhou Kai sat opposite him on the floor, broad body folded easily, arms resting on his knees. He hadn't touched the second bowl he'd made. His eyes dark, steady, unblinking stayed on Jian. It wasn't hunger. It wasn't pity. That made it worse.
Jian lit a cigarette to fill the silence. Smoke curled, masking the broth still clinging to his lips. He exhaled toward Kai, letting it drift deliberately between them. "What now, laoban? Feed the stray, give him a place to sit. You want me to wag my tail? Or do I get on my knees?" His voice was sharp, but the accent softened the edge, country vowels dragging the blade into something almost tender.
Kai didn't flinch. "I want you to take a shower."
Jian blinked, startled, then laughed too loud, too brittle. "A shower?" He gestured at himself with the cigarette. "That's not usually step one."
Kai stood, pulled a towel from a shelf, and nodded toward the small bathroom door. "You'll feel better."
Jian scoffed, but the thought of hot water made his throat ache. He dragged himself to his feet, swaying a little, and flicked ash into the tray. "Fine. But don't cry when I fog your mirror."
The bathroom was narrow, tiles cracked, but the steam wrapped him like something holy. Jian braced his palms against the wall as water ran down his body, stinging cuts, washing the stink of liquor and leather from his skin. He pressed his forehead to the tiles, shaking. No man had ever told him to wash before. They liked him dirty, wanted to mark him more. He hated that this simple thing hurt more than any belt.
When he came out, towel slung low around his waist, Kai had laid folded clothes on the bed: a plain gray t-shirt, soft with wear, and drawstring pants that smelled faintly of detergent and smoke.
Jian smirked weakly, lifting the shirt. "What, you're dressing me now? That extra service?"
"Dry off first," Kai said, leaning back in the chair. "You're still dripping."
Jian obeyed, though he made it a show, dragging the towel across his chest slow, letting his pale skin glow under the lamplight. His collarbone caught the shadows, his flat stomach hollowed with hunger. He tilted his head, watching Kai for reaction. "This part's usually their favorite," he murmured. "Cheap clothes, cheap boy, but the skin's still good."
Kai didn't move. His gaze was steady, unreadable.
Frustration burned through Jian. He yanked the t-shirt on, thin fabric clinging damp to his shoulders, smelling like Kai. It was too big, hanging loose, almost decent. That stung worst of all.
He lit another cigarette, sat on the bed, legs splayed deliberately, smoke curling around him. "This the part where you tell me to earn it? I can make it quick." He forced a sultry grin, but his voice cracked, betraying exhaustion. "I can make it hurt, if you like that better."
Kai leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low but firm. "I told you. Not tonight."
The words were a chain around Jian's chest. He wanted to scream, to throw the cigarette, to claw his own skin until the hunger drowned. Instead he stood, crossed the space in three sharp steps, and dropped into Kai's lap.
He straddled his thighs, hips pressing, his body trembling with effort to perform. Smoke trailed from the corner of his lips as he whispered, "Then take me anyway. That's what I'm good for. That's all I am."
Kai's hands came up, steady, warm, resting on his hips. He didn't drag him closer. He didn't push him away. He just held him there.
"Don't perform," Kai said softly, eyes steady as rain on stone. "Not tonight."
Jian's breath hitched, body shaking in Kai's arms. For the first time in years, he felt breakable.
And he hated it more than anything.
The lamp glowed low, a dull amber that made the room feel more like a secret than a shelter. The rain outside softened into mist against the glass. Xu Jian trembled in Zhou Kai's lap, ribs sharp beneath pale skin, collar bruised, lips swollen from too many cigarettes and too much silence.
"Take me," Jian whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. "That's all I'm good for."
Kai's hands were firm at his hips, holding him steady. He didn't pull him closer, didn't push him away. His eyes stayed locked on Jian's. "Don't perform."
Jian let out a bitter laugh, but it broke halfway into a shudder. "That's the only thing I know how to do." His body shifted automatically, grinding against Kai with a hollow little moan, practiced and precise. "See? I can play. I can make the sounds. I can be whatever you want."
Kai caught his jaw, thumb brushing a bruise on his cheek. "Not whatever. Just you."
The words undid him. Jian sagged forward, forehead pressing into Kai's shoulder. His chest heaved with the effort not to cry. "I don't know how to be me," he whispered.
Kai's lips pressed to his damp hair. "Then let me show you."
The kiss that followed was not a client's kiss. It was not power, not greed, not hunger. It was slow, steady, unhurried. Kai's lips moved against his as though anchoring him to the world. Jian whimpered into it, his hands clawing at Kai's shoulders, clinging desperately as if he might fall.
Clothes slipped away piece by piece, damp shirt peeled from Jian's thin frame, trousers tugged loose, the elastic snap of Kai's undershirt as it came off. Jian's skin gleamed pale in the lamplight, ribs showing, bruises scattered like ink stains. Each time Jian flinched or tried to arch into something performative, Kai steadied him, kissing the marks softly, murmuring, "No masks. Just breathe."
Jian shook. The tenderness was unbearable.
Kai reached into the drawer beside the bed and pulled out the small silver packet. The sound of foil tearing was quiet, ordinary, but to Jian it was shattering. His chest burned. No one had ever cared enough to bother. Clients wanted risk, proof, recklessness. This man...
"Safe," Kai whispered, steady. "For you. For me."
Jian's eyes stung. He turned his face away, ashamed of the tears slipping free.
Kai kissed the wetness from his temple, then guided him back against the sheets. His body pressed over Jian's, broad and warm, the weight both terrifying and anchoring. Their skin slid together, damp and hot. Jian moaned, soft and unsteady, when Kai's hands traced down his sides, over the hollow of his hips, the inside of his thighs. Every caress left him trembling.
"Breathe," Kai whispered again, mouth brushing his jaw. "Just stay with me."
And then the slow, steady press of Kai entering him.
Jian's breath broke into a cry. His hands clawed at the sheets, then at Kai's back. The stretch burned, unbearable and tender all at once. His whole body shook with the effort of taking him in. His lips opened in a moan that cracked into a sob.
Kai kissed the tears that slipped down his cheek. "I know," he whispered. "I know. Easy. You're safe. I've got you."
Jian gasped, clutching him tighter, his nails sinking into Kai's shoulders. "Don't stop," he begged hoarsely. "Please...don't stop."
Kai held still a moment longer, kissing his throat, his jaw, his lips. Only when Jian's breathing began to steady did he move...slow, deep, steady. Each motion pressed them closer together, bodies sliding, sweat beading, the rhythm grounding rather than consuming.
Jian moaned again, voice high, breaking into soft cries. Every thrust tore away another layer of performance until only the raw, desperate boy remained beneath. His tongue sought Kai's in frantic kisses, wet and messy, tasting of salt and smoke. He gasped words between them "please," "don't let go," "I can't."
Kai murmured against his lips, over and over: "With me. Not with them. Just me."
The rhythm built, deeper, stronger. Jian sobbed openly now, moans tangled with broken laughter that cut like glass. "I hate you," he gasped, clinging to him, his tears spilling into Kai's mouth as they kissed. "I hate you for this."
"Then hate me," Kai growled softly, holding him tighter. "But stay."
Jian's body convulsed as release crashed through him, his cry raw and jagged, as though grief itself had torn free of his chest. He shook violently, sobbing, burying his face in Kai's shoulder. Moments later Kai followed, groaning low, muffling the sound against Jian's throat, his body shuddering but his arms never loosening their hold.
For a long time they lay tangled, bodies slick, chests heaving. Jian's breath came in broken sobs that softened into whimpers. Kai stroked his hair slowly, lips brushing his temple. Jian trembled, tears still slipping down his cheeks. He hated the sweetness more than cruelty. It was too much.
When his breathing steadied, Kai eased out carefully, unrolled the condom, tied it, set it aside. Jian turned his face into the pillow, shame rising again. But Kai disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a warm, damp towel.
"Stay still," he murmured.
Jian wanted to protest, to snap, to reclaim his pride. But his body obeyed. He lay trembling as Kai wiped him clean with slow, careful strokes. The tenderness was unbearable. Every swipe of the cloth whispered you matter into his skin.
When Kai was done, he set the towel aside and climbed back into the bed. He pulled Jian against him, chest to chest, his hand stroking his side, thumb brushing the sharp edges of ribs, pausing to pet his damp hair.
Jian whimpered, curling into him despite himself. His lips brushed Kai's throat, catching the salt of sweat and tears there. For a moment, he let his body melt, moaning softly as Kai kissed his temple.
"Good," Kai murmured. "So good."
Jian's eyes fluttered shut. His pride screamed at him to move, to run, to perform. But exhaustion pinned him there. His fingers curled weakly against Kai's chest.
The rain quit sometime before dawn. What it left behind was quiet: a thin light at the curtains, the soft hum of pipes, the faint sound of scooters finding puddles down on the street.
Xu Jian woke to a hand in his hair.
"Morning," Zhou Kai murmured, voice rough with sleep. "You make the smallest sounds when you dream."
Jian's lips brushed Kai's chest without meaning to. "Don't tease me."
"I'm not," Kai said. He kissed Jian's crown, slow. "It's nice. Stay a little."
Jian closed his eyes. He let himself fit into the warm shape of the man's body and pretended it could be ordinary. "Say something good," he whispered. "Lie to me. Make it pretty."
Kai thought, then said simply, "A-Jian, you're here."
Jian huffed a laugh that broke in the middle. "That's barely a lie."
"Then another," Kai tried. "I like how you steal the blanket. I like how you curl your fingers when you sleep. I like... that I can feel you breathe."
"Stop," Jian whispered, and didn't pull away. For a minute he let it be a morning: their legs tangled, his cheek at Kai's shoulder, the smell of detergent and smoke, the bird-soft stroke of fingers through his hair.
Then he sat up too fast, the world tilting, pride finding its footing before tenderness could.
He lit a cigarette. "It's funny," he said, smoke scratching his throat, "how easy it is to say nice things in the dark."
Kai rose without answering, crossed to the table, took his wallet out. He counted bills, neat, practical, and set them down under his cracked watch.
Jian's face emptied. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Enough to keep you off the street for a few days," Kai said, steady. "Food. Sleep. Soap. Nothing more."
The cigarette shook between Jian's fingers. "So it was a transaction after all."
"No," Kai said. "A pause."
Jian laughed, brittle. "You wrap it prettier than most. You're not different, you're just tidy."
"I don't want to buy you."
"Then what do you want?" Jian's voice rose, thin with panic. "You want me to wash your socks, smile at your neighbors, pretend I don't know the price of my own mouth? Is that it?" He jabbed a finger at Kai's chest. "I don't know how to be your miracle."
Kai's jaw worked. "I want you alive."
The room flinched around the words. Jian's mouth opened and closed. He needed armor. He chose anger.
"Alive doesn't pay rent," he snapped. "Alive is just hungry longer."
His phone buzzed. The cracked screen lit his face in a hard little square.
Henan dog. Same place. Don't be late.
Another, before his lungs filled again:
Pretty boy- double if you bleed this time.
Jian felt the floor go soft under him. He wanted to throw the phone at the wall, to smash the part of himself that needed it. He dragged smoke down instead, tears stinging.
"Don't go," Kai said, quieter now.
"You don't understand," Jian said, louder. He needed to be loud to stop shaking. "If I don't, there's nothing. And maybe nothing is what I was made for."
"You've got three days," Kai said. "Make them count."
"Three days," Jian echoed, laughing so it wouldn't be a sob. "What am I supposed to do with mercy that expires?"
He grabbed the money, then, because pride is cruel, threw it at the floor. Bills fluttered down like dying leaves. The gesture looked grand for a second. Then it just looked stupid, and the stupid part hurt worse.
"Pick it up," Kai said gently. "You need to eat."
The words undid him. Jian went to his knees to gather the notes. His hands shook so hard he had to chase them along the boards. It would have been easier if Kai had mocked him. The quiet made it unbearable.
"Say something mean," Jian whispered without looking up. "Make it easy."
"No."
He stood, stuffed the bills into his jacket, hated himself for breathing easier. He tugged the lapels together; the shirt underneath was still Kai's, soft and wrong on his bones.
"You're going to walk out there in my shirt," Kai said, more observation than plea.
"It doesn't make me yours," Jian said, soft. "It makes me warmer."
He reached the door. His phone buzzed again. A call this time. The screen flashed a name he never saved, just a number he'd learned by rhythm.
Kai said, "A-Jian."
Jian didn't turn. His hand was on the knob. "Don't call me that."
"I don't have another name for you."
"Then you should've left me in the rain," Jian said, and winced at how small it sounded aloud.
The silence behind him didn't try to fix it.
He yanked the door open and slammed it because slamming is easier than crying.
The hallway smelled like wet plaster and last night's garlic. The light buzzed with a tired halo. Jian stood a second, forehead against the cool wall, smoke leaking from his mouth until he remembered to breathe it in.
Down on the street, the city ate him. Puddles kept the neon for themselves. Vendors called. A bus wheezed. He walked, Kai's shirt clinging damp at the collarbone where a mouth had been tender and where others had been cruel.
His phone rang again. He let it. When it stopped, messages stitched the screen.
Don't make me wait.
Bring your knees.
I'll pay extra if you cry.
He laughed, one sound, ugly and short, so he wouldn't throw up.
He turned a corner and the wind came along the alley with the smell of steam buns and rain. He could have turned back right then. He could have gone upstairs with the dumbest request of his life: teach me how to breathe for three days.
He didn't.
He put the cigarette to his lips and found it had gone out. He raised the lighter and stopped. The metal was warm from his pocket and from last night's hand.
He slid it away. He walked.
Behind him, somewhere two floors up, a kettle would come to boil. A cup would cool beside a place at the table. A cracked watch would keep on keeping time it had already lost.
Xu Jian kept going until he couldn't feel anymore. Then he kept going anyway.