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Renjun hears him first, the heavy and careless footsteps of his black tie shoes clicking against the tile floors of Renjun’s dressing room. Then comes his cologne, dry and earthy, cutting through the cigarette smoke, incense, and cloying perfume from the other girls, so strong Renjun can practically taste it. When he comes to a stop right behind, the soft silk of his changshan brushes against Renjun’s shoulder.
Then he’s there, peering down at Renjun through his vanity mirror with bright eyes and a wry smile.
“You’re late,” he chirps, “The other actresses are in the wings already.” Renjun stiffens when Chenle reaches a hand towards him, only loosening when he avoids Renjun’s bare skin entirely and instead messes around with his hair. “I like the blonde.”
“You’re early,” Renjun mutters, tapping his cigarette off on his ashtray. “I’m not on stage until thirty minutes into tonight’s show.” He goes back to drawing in his eyeliner, leaning closer to the mirror so Chenle can’t tell he’s following him through the reflection. “What do you want this time?”
“That’s no way to greet an esteemed patron of the arts here.”
“You have the money to go to a real teahouse, with real food and real actors and real costumes.” And more priorities than bothering an undocumented washup on the run in a company full of girls who sing like geese and men with far worse criminal records. Renjun doesn’t know how deep Chenle’s gold trail runs, but he knows it’s at least enough to match up with most of the triads in the city. He’s seen the wide berth other patrons make around Chenle, noticed how quickly his boss folds under Chenle’s steely eyes.
Knows how carefully his boss steps around him now that Chenle’s taken an interest in him.
It would be a lie to say Renjun doesn’t revel in the unspoken control.
(It would also be a lie to say Chenle’s attention is unwanted, but Renjun refuses to let that notion get any further than the rational part of his mind.)
“I can’t stop by to see my favourite nándàn?” Chenle laughs, stepping back to look around the rest of Renjun’s dressing room, like it’s any different from the last time he came, or the time before that. Or the time before that. Renjun hates how he’s grown used to the sight of Chenle poking around what little he has to his name. “I heard you’re playing the principal role tonight. How could I miss out on the performance of a lifetime? I even bought my own box, the one right at the front of the section you serve.”
Renjun forces the instant relief not to show on his face, though he can’t help the small exhale he lets out. Even with the last shred of love he’s nurtured for performing, he hates getting lead characters, what with how his boss uses it as an excuse to parade Renjun around the opera boxes, where all the top circle pull him into their laps or drag their hands over (under) with their hands, all fitted with rings worth ten times the price of Renjun’s bounty.
If Chenle bought a box, at least Renjun can linger there the whole night under the guise of doing his job. An hour of Chenle’s nonstop chatter was undoubtedly worth being able to sleep without any bruises or broken bones to be mindful of.
“You should get me the nice hēichá your boss saves for the holidays,” Chenle continues, examining the open chest of accessories in the corner. He picks up a zhéshàn and fiddles with the bamboo. “It’s smoother than most stuff on the market and he sells it for dirt cheap. You know, if he upped the price and sold it every season, he could save enough to replace the broken planks on the stage.”
“Ask dàgē to serve you himself, if you’re so invested in his business model.”
“You’re no fun,” Chenle groans. He stares at the zhéshàn, face eerily still in contemplation, before he says, “I’m heading back to Shanghai soon. Wrapping up business here by the end of the week, then flying out with an associate of mine as soon as possible. This place makes me sick.”
“Like you’re in any place to judge? You have as much blood on your hands as anyone else of importance here,” Renjun scoffs, hoping his scorn covers up the sudden quickening of his pulse. Chenle can’t leave—he can’t. Not like this, not with Renjun like this.
“At least I have proper sewage back home to wash the blood down the drain! My shoes don’t get stained whenever I take a step outside, this place really needs to take notes.” Chenle sets the zhéshàn down, trading it for one of Renjun’s cord bracelets and fiddling with the gold charm. “How much do you know about Chen Guowei?”
His tone is still light and playful, but the switch to Renjun’s native dōngběihuà doesn’t go unnoticed. Through the accent, the words are instantly familiar to his ears.
And unfamiliar to everyone else in the building.
“He tips well,” Renjun mutters as he thinks of the tall, rugged man in question. He takes a slow drag of his cigarette, trying to let the gentle burn soothe his memories. “Likes my neck the most. He leaves a lot of marks. He sells opioids, right?”
“Among other things,” Chenle sniffs in distaste. Renjun is quick to look away when he starts unbuttoning his changshan, face on fire. Moments later, Chenle sets down a small vial on Renjun’s vanity. Whatever liquid inside is clear, and when Renjun picks it up to inspect the contents, he can tell it’s a little thinner than water, almost imperceptibly so.
“He’s sitting in paradise, in a row of his deputies. It’ll show through in wine, but not tea. Enough to kill a grown elephant, it’ll take him out like a charm.”
“Chenle, no,” Renjun snaps. He knew Chenle was testing the waters with every small errand he asked of Renjun, but for a while, he clung to the hope that Chenle appreciated his work and his company. Scrawling notes on his arm and trading papers under the table wasn’t supposed to devolve into this.
“I’ve been trying to nail him down the past three months and this is the only chance I’ve got—”
“How many more times are you going to make me do your dirty work?”
“I’ll pay you! Say any number you want and it’s yours—”
“I said no—”
“You’re getting sold to him tomorrow,” Chenle hisses.
Renjun freezes.
“He’s putting a fortune on you, and your boss owes him two million. I couldn’t outbid him if I tried. And trust me, I would’ve tried, if it didn’t mean an immediate death sentence for the both of us.” Chenle grits his teeth and runs a finger down Renjun’s pípá. The resulting note is dissonant, harsh against the soft music playing from the main house. “I didn’t think you wanted to know.”
Renjun isn’t stupid.
He knows he’s running on borrowed time. Around him, girls fell one by one, replaced days later by someone younger, someone prettier. It was only a matter of time before he was at the front of the line.
But he hoped, he prayed, he fell into the illusion that he was safe. He hated the walls of the city as much as he held onto their protection, the semblance of a life it had granted him when he first stumbled through scattered alleys at the very bottom. The zhǐqián factory bordering the south wall, the mess of wires running along the ceilings of the hallways, the endless roads towards the water pump, the flights of stairs all the way up to the scrap of heaven on the open rooftops, Renjun found a routine while hiding from the buzzing street lamps. He found a life, amidst the stained concrete jungle.
The thought of being dragged down even deeper into the city by men who could do (would do) everything worse than killing him made his stomach roil with nausea.
“Why are you telling me this?” Renjun seethes, “Why do you care?”
Renjun always liked how expressive Chenle was, how he wore his heart like a mask, but now, he can’t discern any of the emotions flicking across his face. Chenle’s jaw is tightened, his mouth twitching downwards, his eyes darker than Renjun had ever seen them before. It sends a chill up Renjun’s spine.
Finally, Chenle settles on a contemplative expression, a calculated visage hiding something more sinister underneath, Renjun’s sure of it. “You asked what I did when we first met. Do you remember?”
The evening itself is hazy in the back of Renjun’s mind. He hadn’t eaten all day and the back to back shows took a toll on him. He drank more in those four hours than he ever had his entire time at the teahouse, and he spent the night with a friend of his boss for extra money to patch a burn on his thigh from boiling water.
He remembers meeting Chenle, with his sharp smile and sharper laugh, the only person who talked to him upfront. Renjun asked about his role in the city, still too new to the area to know the biggest names, and Chenle winked and answered, “Between you and me? We can call it venture capital.”
“Your shoes didn’t match your suit that day,” Renjun recalls. “I wanted to tell you that, but your driver pulled you away before I got the chance.”
“I wish you did,” Chenle laughs, delighted. “I’ve got a lot of side jobs here and there, but I’ve gotten good at forging papers. Makes a lot more money than I thought it would and I’m good with my hands. Passports, birth certificates, the works.”
Renjun’s throat goes dry. “Chenle, don’t—”
“Come to Shanghai with me.” He holds Renjun’s gaze through the mirror, open. Honest. Genuine. “ I could give you a little pocket change, get you back on your feet. You’re a dead man walking here, but across the strait? Not a single soul knows your name now, and they won’t know it when you kick the bucket fifty years down the line. I’m the only person in this city that can help you, and I won’t be here much longer.”
“I’m not going back to the mainland, not over my mother’s grave,” Renjun retorts, “I’d shoot myself before fifty minutes could even pass.” Chenle kneels right behind him and Renjun whips around with a scowl. “Chenle, get out. I’m not your fucking plaything, leave me out of your games.”
“Korea, then?” he asks, ignoring Renjun’s outburst entirely. “Or America? England would be easy too, but I’m against that on principle.”
He’s so close now, Renjun can smell the heart notes of his cologne. With barely a few centimetres left between them, he can see the exact slope of his nose, the moles on his ears, the cut of his cheekbones. His breath tickles Renjun’s lashes.
His sleeve grazes Renjun’s cheek as he reaches past, at something on Renjun’s vanity. “France?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Renjun can see Chenle picking up a little bronze ornament of the Eiffel Tower, a gift from one of Renjun’s old clients that he couldn’t bring himself to toss.
“If you stay with me for a week or two, keep a low profile, I could get it done for you,” he murmurs.
Renjun’s breath hitches.
It’s the first true out Chenle’s stated.
Kowloon was supposed to be an out, but it trapped Renjun in a caged corner, and here Chenle was, dropping a rope from the sky.
Chenle smiles at him, softer. Kinder.
He sets the statuette down for the and waves it in front of Renjun’s face. The liquid sloshes back and forth like a metronome. “But this comes first.”
With a careful finger, he pushes Renjun’s lapel back to tuck the vial in his inside pocket, then folds the front over and ties the ribbon off, only touching the fabric. Renjun’s eyes fall from Chenle’s eyes, to his lips, to the bob of his Adam’s apple.
“What if—?” Renjun squeezes his eyes shut. “What if I can’t get to him? What if he notices?”
“You will. He won’t.” Chenle’s voice is relaxed in its confidence.
“But what if?”
“You’re good at what you do,” he replies easily, "“I trust you, so I don’t know why you shouldn’t trust yourself either.” A light touch brushes against Renjun’s forehead and he opens his eyes to see Chenle pushing his bangs and his hair back to tie off with the recognisable weight of his zānzi. Then, for the first time, Chenle touches skin by ghosting his knuckles right under Renjun’s eye, and cups his jaw with a rough, dry hand. He tilts Renjun’s head up and Renjun’s heart crawls into his throat from the sheer intensity of his gaze. “Gēgē is so pale, don’t you think you deserve to see the sun?”
Before Renjun can react, Chenle plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and grinds it against his ashtray. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your pretty voice before you head on stage,” he teases. The dropped hand and the switch back to Cantonese takes with it all the heat of the moment, and rips the air out of Renjun’s lungs too.
Chenle stands up and extends the same hand down towards Renjun, hoisting him up on his feet with a light tug. Once Renjun regains his balance, Chenle presses a soft kiss to his forehead and whispers, “Get it to him before the end of the show and I’ll do the rest.”