Chapter Text
Fang Duobing is pacing in front of the apartment building, and he knows—okay, he knows—that Zhaoling is getting more and more annoyed with him because he can see it in her face, but like—ugh, it’s so stupid. He hasn’t ever brought anyone he’s dated to meet Li Lianhua and Di Feisheng, and what is he going to do if they don’t like her? Is he going to break up with her? He has to break up with her if they don’t like her, and that will be very hard to explain to his mother. Fuck. Fuck! “Okay, so when you meet them, just—they will be sort of weird? And you have to pretend that nothing weird is happening, no matter how weird they are. They mean well! And, like, look, the condo is super expensive, but you have to try not to show that you know because Lao Di will start to point out the, like, features? And I can’t hear about his wine fridge again, Ling’er, I’ll die. I’ll just die if he tells me about it again.”
Zhaoling, his sweet beautiful girlfriend, the love of his life, the most beautiful woman he knows, takes his hand. Squeezes it. And says, “Kevin, if you don’t shut up and ring the intercom, I will leave you here and get back on MUNI and go home.”
“You can’t take MUNI home,” Fang Duobing says automatically.
“I will build a fucking extension across the fucking bay,” his beautiful, wonderful, elegant girlfriend says. “Watch me.”
“Okay,” he says, “okay, okay.” And he turns to the intercom and punches in the code to dial the penthouse without looking it up, even though it’s probably been the better part of a year since he’s been to the penthouse. He’s been so busy with Zhaoling and it’s easier to drop by Lotus Tower once he’s visiting her in the East Bay anyway.
It rings twice before a crackly but unmistakable voice says, “Xiaobao?”
“It’s me,” Fang Duobing says. The doors buzz open, and they step into the vestibule as Li Lianhua hangs up.
Zhaoling is giving Fang Duobing a weird look. Oh god. Oh god oh god he’s already fucked it up. She says, “Only your mom calls you Xiaobao.”
“Yeah,” Fang Duobing says stubbornly, waving at the security guy. “My mom and Lianhua.—Hi Rob.”
The security guy, Rob, waves back. “Hey man.” He’s about twenty-five, Latino, undercut. He has a YouTube channel that he’s explained to Fang Duobing at least twice, although Fang Duobing can never remember what it’s for. He’s pretty sure it’s video game reviews? Or something. He rates things. He’d be terrible if the building needed, like, actual security of any kind, but Rob knows Fang Duobing on sight, partly because he’s around so often and partly because, once, Di Feisheng brought Rob back a bunch of weird candies from a trip to Japan (maybe Rob rates snacks on his YouTube channel?), and Rob has literally never forgotten. Makes a point to recognize all of Di Feisheng’s guests. Fang Duobing isn’t actually sure that Di Feisheng would appreciate knowing that Rob has all of his guests memorized, but Fang Duobing isn’t going to fuck up a good thing by telling him.
“Don’t you know this guy from college?” Zhaoling says, baffled, following Fang Duobing to the elevator bank. “Why does he call you that? Who does that?”
Fang Duobing gesticulates wildly, dragging her into the elevator. “I don’t know! He does that. He’s always called me that. It’s just—it’s a thing. That he does.”
“Does his husband call you that too? Are you, like, the son they never had?” She’s trying not to laugh, snickering under her breath.
He pouts. “Be nice. They’re sort of—well, they’re my best friends.”
“Your best friends are two wealthy thirty-somethings who live in Pacific Heights and have a wine fridge,” Zhaoling says, making a face. “No offense, babe, but that’s so weird.”
“Some offense taken!” Fang Duobing half shouts. He wouldn’t put it past Di Feisheng to bug the elevator, and it’s going to be so awkward if he has to start by apologizing for her.
“God, you’re so weird,” Zhaoling says fondly as she steps out of the elevator and takes in the ostentatiously minimalist chandelier, the vaulted ceiling, and the single door on the landing. “Is this the top floor?”
“Do not. Mention. How expensive the condo is.”
She gapes at him. “Oh, shit, babe. They’re rich rich.”
“Wine fridge,” Fang Duobing hisses at her as he rings the doorbell to the penthouse. He thinks hatefully of the wine fridge and the espresso machine and the automatic smart blinds and the shoe closet. He grinds his teeth thinking of the jacuzzi tub and the Toto washlet that sings and the television in the mirror. He wishes more than anything that this were happening at Lotus Tower. They seem so much more normal at Lotus Tower.
“Xiaobao!” Li Lianhua calls out as he opens the door. Unthinking and automatic, Fang Duobing flings himself at Li Lianhua, hugging him. Folding himself into his arms. Li Lianhua is wearing a big white oversized sweatshirt that makes him particularly soft, smooths out the bony corners of him. He pats Fang Duobing on the back, slightly awkward. Fang Duobing is going to whine at him, ask him don’t you love me anymore as he bunts his head against Li Lianhua’s chin, when Li Lianhua says pointedly, “Are you going to introduce me to your guest?”
Right. Yes. Fang Duobing’s girlfriend is here and he needs Li Lianhua and Di Feisheng on their best behavior. They are being so polite. “Ah, Lianhua, this is Zhaoling. Zhaoling, this is Lianhua.” Fang Duobing is keenly aware of the way that Li Lianhua is looking Zhaoling over, the look he usually gets before he pronounces judgment on a serious problem in Fang Duobing’s life.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” Li Lianhua says, voice light and colorless.
“Likewise. I’ve heard so much about you,” says Zhaoling cheerfully as they cross the threshold.
There is a skitter of nails on hardwood and then a string of yipping barks as Hulijing scampers up and jumps onto Fang Duobing. Li Lianhua snaps, “Off!”, which results in Hulijing devolving into whining noises and pawing at Fang Duobing’s knees.
On muscle memory, Fang Duobing drops to his knees in the entryway and she climbs into his lap, licking at his face. At least someone is happy to see him. “Hello, old girl, how are you? Are you a good dog? Are you the very, very best dog there is? Did you miss me?” He scratches her behind the ears and gives her the hard pats on the butt that she loves. “I missed you too. I know, I know. I moved so far away and no one walks you anymore and no one loves you like I love you, but you know that—”
Li Lianhua coughs. “Do you not like dogs?” he says gently.
“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Zhaoling says. “I just never had any pets growing up. I’m not used to them.”
“I can put her in our bedroom,” Li Lianhua says. “Xiaobao didn’t tell me—it’s no trouble. ”
“I think Kevin would be upset if I made you lock your dog up,” Zhaoling says with a self-deprecating laugh.
Kissing Hulijing on her sweet little head, Fang Duobing has the decency to blush as he stands up. “Sorry,” Fang Duobing says, pulling his sneakers off in the surprisingly tidy entryway where the usual spill of shoes has largely been relegated to the shoe rack. “I didn’t think.”
“Really, it’s fine,” Zhaoling repeats. She’s giving him a look, though. Aw shit. As she steps into the pair of actual guest slippers that someone has set out alongside the fluffy blue ones they keep for Fang Duobing, she says sweetly, “You have such a lovely home.”
Fang Duobing tries to control his full-body wince. “No, it’s not his home,” he says at the same time as Li Lianhua says, “Oh, no, it’s not my home.”
They glance at each other, an exchange of mutual and long knowledge, and the corner of Li Lianhua’s mouth quirks up. He squeezes Fang Duobing’s arm. “Ah, Xiaobao knows me so well. No, the penthouse is my—Lao Di’s place.”
“You still can’t say it, huh?” Fang Duobing says, grabbing hold of this familiar line of teasing. “How long has it been? Five years?”
“No,” Li Lianhua says, arms folded over his chest. “No, only three.”
“At least five!” Fang Duobing crows. “I was twenty-one when you two got married. I’m nearly twenty-seven now.”
“You couldn’t have been twenty-one,” Li Lianhua corrects automatically. “I had to sneak you champagne at dinner afterward because you weren’t old enough to drink legally.”
“That’s still more than five years,” Fang Duobing points out.
“Aiyah, Xiaobao, don’t be like this. You’re so mean to me.”
“Oh, no, that won’t work on me anymore. I’m not Lao Di; you can’t bully me.”
Li Lianhua leads them into the living room, Hulijing trotting at his heels. When he points toward the dog bed in the corner, she goes. He settles onto his favorite spot on the pristine white loveseat and curls his legs under him, his calculating eyes coming to rest on Fang Duobing. Li Lianhua says pointedly, “If you want her to sit on your lap, you better sit on the floor.”
Fang Duobing rolls his eyes. Sitting down on the green velvet sofa, Fang Duobing says, “Your furniture, your rules. I know.” Fang Duobing hates this sofa. It’s too firm and has the worst back support known to man—almost certainly a deliberate play on Di Feisheng’s part to get guests to leave. Fang Duobing always tries to avoid sitting on it, but it’s the only place in the living room where Zhaoling can sit next to him and, well, she’s his guest. He can’t just take his usual place next to Li Lianhua and abandon her.
“It can’t be five years,” Li Lianhua mutters because of course he can’t let it go. Turning, he calls into the kitchen, “Lao Di, when did we get married?”
“Five years, four months,” Di Feisheng says, appearing from the opposite side of the penthouse. He’s wearing these horrible silk pants and a patterned Italian shirt that’s half unbuttoned, exposing the chain of his necklace. “Stop telling our guests you don’t live here.”
“I didn’t tell her I don’t live here,” Li Lianhua says. “I told her it’s not my home.”
“Legally you own half of it,” Di Feisheng says with a sigh. “Hello, Mr. Fang.” He nods to Zhaoling and then crosses the room, extending his hand. “Mr. Fang isn’t going to introduce me, but I’m Feisheng.”
“Zhaoling,” says Zhaoling, sounding a little strangled. “Nice to meet you.”
Di Feisheng glances at Fang Duobing and gives him a pointed look. “You too,” he says, not dropping eye contact with Fang Duobing. Okay, it is possible that Fang Duobing didn’t mention that Lao Di was Di Feisheng. He might have danced around that for the last umpteen months, but in his defense, Di Feisheng is, you know, Di Feisheng and it’s sort of hard to explain why you’re on more or less friendly terms with the most hated man in the Bay Area. Also, the last time that Fang Duobing used Di Feisheng’s full name, he was probably twenty years old. Or talking to his mother.
“That doesn’t make it my home,” Li Lianhua grumbles at Di Feisheng. Gesturing at the kitchen, he adds, “Go make the mimosas.”
Di Feisheng rolls his eyes, but as usual when Li Lianhua asks him to do something, he does it, disappearing through the arch that separates the kitchen from the living room.
Because he can’t help it, Fang Duobing asks, “Why are you living in the penthouse?” He’s never known Li Lianhua to live there for any significant amount of time, not more than a weekend spent using it as a pied-à-terre when he didn’t want to drag himself back across the bay each night.
“We’re renovating Lotus Tower,” Li Lianhua says with a groan. “Lao Di said I couldn’t rent a place when the penthouse was just sitting empty.”
“Oh, good. I had this idea that Lao Di had decided I wasn’t allowed in Lotus Tower anymore,” Fang Duobing says, mostly joking. It wouldn’t be entirely unprecedented, although Di Feisheng had good reason the last time. Still, the idea of not seeing the place for months was somehow—it made Fang Duobing obscurely sad like an old friend had moved away and might not be coming back.
“That does sound like him,” Li Lianhua says, voice gentle, “but no. We’re just redoing the kitchen.”
“Oh, how lovely—” Zhaoling starts to say.
“Li Lianhua!” Fang Duobing yelps, sitting up straighter in his seat and jabbing a finger in Li Lianhua’s direction. Hulijing barks in solidarity. Switching into Mandarin, he says, too loud, “You said I could help you redesign it. You promised.”
The look on Li Lianhua’s face is extremely squirrelly. He shifts in his seat, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. “That was at least four years ago.”
Fang Duobing folds his arms over his chest, furious. “You broke your promise, you old fox.” Knowing Di Feisheng, they are going to put a white kitchen with luxury vinyl and an electric stove into that beautiful old apartment, and Fang Duobing is never going to forgive them.
Li Lianhua says pointedly, “Fang Xiaobao, why do you think I broke that promise, hm? What has changed since I told you that you could help four years ago?”
Fang Duobing flushes, caught out. He says sulkily, “I could still have helped. As your friend.”
“You don’t live there anymore,” Li Lianhua says gently but firmly. Shifting back into English, he turns to Zhaoling, “Would you prefer grapefruit or orange juice in your mimosa? We should have both.”
“Orange juice is good,” Zhaoling says. “I didn’t know Kevin used to live with you.”
Li Lianhua’s eyes widen slightly for a fraction of a moment. Ah, well, maybe Fang Duobing should have warned him. Zhaoling won’t speak it, but she does understand Mandarin well enough to follow a conversation. Almost without missing a beat, Li Lianhua says breezily, “Oh, it was just for a summer during college. I sublet the spare room in my apartment.” Then he calls into the kitchen, “Lao Di, two orange juice and a grapefruit for me.”
“You can’t have grapefruit,” Di Feisheng shouts back.
“I can have grapefruit if I want to have grapefruit.”
“No,” Di Feisheng says, appearing with a tray of four orange juice mimosas and the World’s Best Dad apron that Fang Duobing got him as a joke for Father’s Day four years ago wrapped around his waist. “You can’t. I threw it out.”
“You threw out. The grapefruit juice,” Li Lianhua says, voice laced with incredulity, as he twists around on the loveseat to confirm that, yes, Di Feisheng is in fact carrying four orange juice mimosas.
“Yes, because we both know you can’t have grapefruit with your medication,” Di Feisheng spits out. Rictus of a smile plastered to his face, Di Feisheng hands Fang Duobing and Zhaoling their mimosas. He offers one to Li Lianhua, who looks down his nose at him. Di Feisheng sets it down on the side table by Li Lianhua’s elbow and then settles next to him on the loveseat, arms brushing.
Li Lianhua turns, raising an eyebrow at Di Feisheng, who is about half a foot closer to Li Lianhua’s side than Fang Duobing has ever seen him sit in company before. Some silent exchange passes between them, and Li Lianhua sighs, rolling his eyes, and picks up his orange juice mimosa, sipping it hatefully. “Nice apron.”
“Thank you,” Di Feisheng says icily.
Into the precarious silence that follows, Zhaoling asks politely, “How long have you two been together?”
Groaning, Fang Duobing shakes his head at her as Di Feisheng says, “Sixteen years,” and Li Lianhua says, “Six.” They glare at each other.
“I’m not counting the ten years we weren’t on speaking terms,” Li Lianhua says.
“Oh, were you seeing other people?” Di Feisheng says icily.
“As a matter of fact—” Li Lianhua begins.
Fang Duobing cuts in, “Okay, but even if you’re not counting that, it’s closer to seven years.” And then everyone is staring at him. Oh. Well. Fine, probably he shouldn’t know that. But at least they’re not talking about who Li Lianhua was dating in the meantime. “It was the summer I was subletting his guest room,” Fang Duobing adds weakly.
Di Feisheng blinks at him. “The summer you were…subletting his guest room.”
Fang Duobing says eloquently, “Uh.”
“Yes, A’Fei, don’t you remember?” Li Lianhua says sweetly, squeezing Di Feisheng’s knee. “Between his sophomore and junior years?”
“Of course,” Di Feisheng says slowly. “The summer he was subletting the guest room.”
In Fang Duobing’s defense, he’s right. He is right! He was there! It was more than six years ago! It was also in, like, February, but seriously, Zhaoling doesn’t need that level of granular detail. “I can’t believe you two don’t remember that it’s been nearly seven years.”
“I remember other things,” Di Feisheng says with more innuendo than is strictly necessary in front of Fang Duobing’s girlfriend, thank you very much.
Pointedly ignoring Fang Duobing and Di Feisheng glaring daggers at each other, Li Lianhua asks Zhaoling politely, “What do you do?”
She smiles. “I’m finishing journalism school at Berkeley this spring,” she says.
“Oh, that’s such interesting work,” Li Lianhua says, but Fang Duobing watches the light die in his eyes. “What kind of journalism do you want to go into?”
“I was interning for Condé Nast last summer and I really enjoyed the opportunity to work from more of a, you know, photojournalistic lens with the images being as important as the text,” Zhaoling says. “But my real passion is for investigative journalism.”
Li Lianhua says, “Toward more ethical production of fast fashion?”
“Oh, no,” Zhaoling says. In that instant, Fang Duobing knows exactly what she’s about to say, but he’s powerless to stop her. Zhaoling looks straight at Di Feisheng as she says, “I’m really interested in writing about tech actually. You know, you’d be surprised at how unethical some of the funding sources are for startups.”
Di Feisheng smiles at her. It’s not even a threatening smile. “I’m sure I would be. You’ll have to tell me about it sometime.”
Li Lianhua half turns to Fang Duobing and gives him a look, and that’s not fair. That is not fair because this is Fang Duobing’s girlfriend and she is lovely and, yes, she is clearly trying to threaten Di Feisheng, but Di Feisheng is involved in unethical venture capital shit and, besides, it’s like a Bichon Frisé barking at a Rottweiler. She isn’t going to—to write an article on Li Xiangyi. Or whatever Li Lianhua is worrying about. Li Lianhua says, “Xiaobao, will you help me with something in the kitchen?”
“Um.”
Zhaoling is literally begging Fang Duobing with her eyes not to abandon her with Di Feisheng. Fang Duobing shouldn’t leave her alone with Di Feisheng. But the heat of Li Lianhua’s glare is such that Fang Duobing will probably catch fire soon, so he mouths, I’m sorry, at his lovely, radiant girlfriend who he hopes won’t leave him for this and then says, pointing threateningly at Di Feisheng, “Be nice. Don’t make her a four-shot latte with the weird pistachio syrup.”
Di Feisheng blinks mildly at him. “Okay?” Di Feisheng says in this voice that makes it sound as if Fang Duobing is the weird one.
Li Lianhua snaps, “Fang Xiaobao, a hand? If you’re finished being rude to Lao Di, that is.”
Di Feisheng smiles at Fang Duobing. Winks. “Zhaoling, why don’t you tell me about what’s wrong with venture capital these days?” Fang Duobing can hear Di Feisheng mentally picking up a pencil to take notes, determined to tick off everything on the list Zhaoling is about to write for him.
Shaking his finger one last time at Di Feisheng in warning, Fang Duobing follows Li Lianhua into the kitchen. Hulijing rises up and, shaking herself with a little jingle of the tags on her collar, trots after them into the kitchen. The only thing separating the two of them from the living room is an archway full of air, so Fang Duobing is, like, fairly confident that Li Lianhua can’t actually yell at him. He’s just going to hand him plates of cut fruit angrily.
Li Lianhua looks straight at Fang Duobing, mouth a thin hard line. He opens the fridge, pulling out a crudité platter and handing it pointedly to Fang Duobing. Fang Duobing sets it on the counter. He receives a charcuterie board and a pitcher of cucumber water with equal force, some of the water sloshing onto the floor. Closing the fridge and bumping pointedly into Fang Duobing, Li Lianhua starts to open and slam shut several of the dark cherrywood cabinets. Does not look in any of them. Just glares at Fang Duobing. Fuck. “Xiaobao, I need something from the pantry,” Li Lianhua says, a little too loud, so that everyone in the living room can hear.
Fang Duobing shakes his head, eyes as wide as they’ll go, pleading with him. Stalling, Fang Duobing bends down to pet Hulijing who is leaning pointedly against his leg. “I think it’s in the cabinet over the sink.”
Raising his eyebrows, Li Lianhua gestures very pointedly at the sink, which is in front of a window that runs all the way up to the ceiling. There is decidedly no cabinet above it. “It definitely is not.” He stalks over to the pantry door and whips it open.
Like a man going to the gallows, Fang Duobing slinks into the pantry, largely empty save for the accumulation of aspirational appliances that Li Lianhua buys in moments when he thinks they might be the kind of people who made ice cream at home or had fondue parties or bothered with Belgian waffles. Li Lianhua scuttles in behind Fang Duobing and shuts the door in Hulijing’s face, and then the tiny room is entirely in darkness, just their warm breath and the sound of Li Lianhua’s hand scrabbling against the wall for the switch and Hulijing’s soft whining from the other side of the door. Trying to avoid bumping into Li Lianhua, Fang Duobing backs up against the far wall of shelves, which rattle ominously in the dark.
“How could you bring her here?” Li Lianhua hisses, evidently giving up on finding the switch.
Fang Duobing throws up his hands. “You said she could come.”
“Yes, because I thought you had literally any sense—”
“Oh, for—she is not investigating you,” Fang Duobing snaps. “She’s just my girlfriend. She’s here because I asked her to be. I wanted her to meet you and Lao Di because you’re important to me.”
“How can you not understand that I wouldn’t want a journalist here?” Li Lianhua says in the same voice he uses when Hulijing throws up on the carpet.
“Not everything is about you,” Fang Duobing half shouts.
As if on cue, the lights flick on. Fang Duobing blinks hazily at the sudden fluorescent brightness, eyes swimming with afterimages. Li Lianhua’s cheeks are a familiar furious pink. He’s about to say something, probably to keep arguing, but the door swings open, and Di Feisheng is standing in the open door. “The light switch is outside the pantry,” he says drily. “Or do you prefer to fight in the dark?”
“I can never remember the layout of your place,” Li Lianhua says, smoothly stepping past Di Feisheng back into the kitchen. “Thank you, Lao Di.”
Di Feisheng’s expression is stormy, his eyes the flinty grey of a turbulent sea. There is a moment when Fang Duobing thinks that Di Feisheng is going to close the pantry door on him and brick it up. “Are you waiting for an invitation?” Di Feisheng says.
“Sorry, sorry.” Fang Duobing scrambles out, tripping over an immersion circulator from Li Lianhua’s thankfully brief love affair with sous vide gathering dust. “You know, usually they put light switches inside of rooms.”
“Most people,” Di Feisheng says archly, “do not use the pantry to confer amongst themselves.” He sweeps out of the room and Li Lianhua sighs, shooting Fang Duobing an irritated look. As if it’s Fang Duobing’s fault! Following Li Lianhua back into the living room, Fang Duobing is just in time to see the expression on Zhaoling’s face as Di Feisheng says to her, “Now, where were we? Let me show you the wine fridge I was telling you about.”