The mattress squeaked with each thrust. In the back of his brain, Mu Qing wondered if that meant the damn thing needed to be replaced. He said nothing. That was not what he needed to focus on. He was supposed to be in the moment with his husband — a task growing increasingly more difficult by the moment.
The springs of the mattress dug into his knees, his hair tickled his nose where it fell over his shoulder, and the pillows felt deflated to pancakes. The lack of plush provided no cushion for his hips or elbows. His husband claimed he requested feather pillows like Mu Qing preferred — they were more like useless lumps.
He noticed the issue right away, which was a damn good thing. He doubted having feather stems stabbing into his groin from flaccid padding would have set the correct mood. He argued for the alternative of getting on his hands and knees. Mu Qing thought it would be sexy; the position had been a favorite for years at this point. He thought the view, the reminder of some of their steamier days, would help to reignite the spark.
Instead, Zhu An rolled his eyes at his husband before he gave Mu Qing a halfhearted kiss and pushed him down toward the bed by the back of the neck. The encouragement, the press of his hand, hadn’t felt… wanton. It hadn’t felt like he couldn’t wait to be inside him.
In the early days of their relationship, their marriage, Zhu An had been so eager that there were times he didn’t properly prep the man he loved because he needed him with such fervor it couldn’t wait. That was not what this felt like. His hold on Mu Qing’s hips remained loose. Each thrust didn’t quite reach anything close to the bundle of nerves, coming up woefully short. He wanted that spark, the electric feeling of pleasure jolting through his entire body.
He wanted his system to get short-circuited and a little stupid. Mu Qing wanted to devolve into a sobbing or a mewling mess. He wanted a good f*ck.
They needed this reconnection.
Yet, his husband’s thrusts were disjointed. His fingertips weren’t bruising. He wasn’t pounding into him desperately. Those things would have been fine if it felt languid, slow, and savoring, but that wasn’t what Mu Qing felt either.
Anxiety crept into the back of his brain. Had he done something wrong? Was he not attractive enough? Had he skipped too many gym days?
He thought about everything but the co*ck in his ass at the moment, and it wasn’t like that helped anything. This was supposed to be a second honeymoon — though they agreed that paying for an actual honeymoon suite would be a waste of money. But still!
This trip was about reconnection.
It wasn’t fair of him to put all of the pressure of reconnecting physically on Zhu An. It wasn’t. Mu Qing knew that. He wasn’t doing his part. Criticizing his partner was not helpful — per their therapist. Forcing a moan for pleasure he didn’t feel, in hopes of boosting his husband’s ego, Mu Qing undulated and rocked his body backward. If Zhu An wasn’t reaching that sweet spot on his own, then they could chase it together.
He hadn’t used enough lube, and there was a distinct lack of precum to help. The resistance burned, and Mu Qing warded off any thoughts of chafing or pain. Sometimes a little bit of pain increased the pleasure. And there — the head almost brushed that sweet spot. Mu Qing caught his bottom lip between his teeth and shifted his body as he lifted his upper half a little more to work his body back with more intent and force.
The co*ckhead brushed the bundle of nerves, and Mu Qing felt the whisper of that promise of pleasure. It was a tease. The potential of something he very much wanted to chase and allow to build.
“Right there,” he hissed.
He turned his head to look back at his husband, seeking out more connection in the form of lips and tongue and teeth… only to blanch at the sight awaiting him. Zhu An was not, in fact, enjoying the view. Or, at least, he wasn’t enjoying the view of his husband. No, instead, Zhu An — the man he had been married to for the last five years — had his head turned completely to the right.
He peered over his shoulder and out the f*cking window.
Following the wayward gaze was a mistake. Loose fingers and lazy thrusts continued as Mu Qing realized the co*ck stuffed inside him was half-hard at best. His thrusts were half-hearted, their skin never quite meeting. The delicious friction Mu Qing sought, the feel of the tip of his husband’s erection pressing and plowing deep inside him to drive him toward a screaming org*sm — remained a pipe dream like this.
The curtains of their sixth story hotel room were pulled open. Zhu An asked him to leave the curtains open before they began to get down and dirty. Mu Qing thought perhaps it would add a level of spice to their reconnection. He must have seen seen the goddamn big screen TV in the building across the street airing the soccer game and realized he could have something else to focus on entirely while he stuck his dick up Mu Qing’s ass and wobbled back and forth until they both got tired, or Zhu An came, and he could end the chore.
“I can’t believe you!” Mu Qing screeched.
He couldn’t hold it in anymore. The words burst from his lips, scathing despite the tears stinging in his eyes. He wasn’t going to let them fall. He wouldn’t.
He was not going to cry.
“What, sweetheart?” came the unintelligent response.
Absolutely not. Mu Qing shoved his husband away from him. The other man toppled back, tripped over his own feet, and landed ass first on the floor. Zhu An looked up at Mu Qing with wide eyes and his legs splayed open. His pliable, floppy co*ck told Mu Qing just how f*cking uninterested he had been in their ‘lovemaking’ moments prior.
“Ow! What the f*ck!? What is wrong with you?” Zhu An snapped up at Mu Qing, who glared down at him with wild and watery eyes.
“Me?” Mu Qing shot back as he scrambled away from the bed, hurling the pancake version of a pillow at his husband. “You were watching TV!”
“I wasn’t watching it — not the whole time! I just looked that way for a second. You caught me in a moment where I looked away,” his husband attempted to explain.
It didn’t help anything! Mu Qing shook with rage as he stomped about the hotel room, snatching up various pieces of clothing. Once his hands were full he fled to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. His hand found his mouth immediately as he covered his lips to swallow up the sound of the choked sob. Humiliation settled on his skin, cold and disgusting in contrast to the inferno inside him.
His husband would rather lie and watch soccer than make love to him.
“Mu Qing, will you stop being a drama queen and get out of that bathroom?” Zhu An called. His voice didn’t sound close to the other side of the door. It sounded distant, far away, and no knock followed. “Let’s talk about this. You can’t just shove me and run off like that’s going to solve anything, damn it.”
Did he even care? What sort of husband went through the motions, called their spouse a drama queen, and wasted the second chance they had at a honeymoon? This entire trip was supposed to be about the two of them reconnecting. This trip was supposed to reinvigorate their marriage. Neither of them had been blind or stupid; they both felt how stale things had become. It had been — f*ck. How long had it been since they even had sex until now?
Mu Qing mentally attempted to pour through the memories of the last few months, but it had been longer than that. His emotions a bit more under control, or at least focused on the internal rage beginning to boil rather than the hurt (even if his thoughts weren’t), he peeled his hand away from his mouth to grab a washcloth to begin cleaning himself up. The amount of lubrication that his dear husband used had been paltry. And it wasn’t even the brand or the base Mu Qing preferred. Zhu An knew that.
He clearly just didn’t care. What other answer could there be? Even if he had one, Mu Qing didn’t want to hear it because none of them would have made it right — no answer his husband gave right now would make him feel better about what just happened.
Tossing the washcloth into the sink, Mu Qing yanked his clothes on piece by piece. He felt shattered into a million pieces from heartbreak and hurt and numbness. His pathetic reflection revealed the tears falling down his red face. He felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience as he watched someone else go through the motions instead.
“I can do whatever I want, Zhu An,” Mu Qing said back, and even to his own ears, he sounded like a broken, sad man. “Clearly, there’s nothing to talk about since you never did anything wrong, and I’m just being a drama queen — it’s not like we took this trip to reconnect, right? It’s not like we were trying to get our marriage back on track or save it, right!?”
Underwear. Pants. Shirt. Choker.
Mu Qing pieced himself back together and turned toward the door. He felt trapped. He couldn’t f*cking stay here. He couldn’t stand to be here with him right now. He didn’t care what they came here for, not after that.
He threw the door open, embracing the rage that he felt — trying to focus on it and enshroud himself to keep it together rather than continue to fall apart.
Zhu An sat on the bed with only his boxers on, and… the TV in their hotel room now played the same stupid game. Zhu An didn’t even like soccer, and yet, his eyes were fixated on the screen. His gaze only flickered over to the bathroom momentarily upon hearing the door open.
“Why are you dressed?”
Mu Qing’s husband didn’t even seem interested in the answer, not with his eyes glued to the f*cking game. So, Mu Qing said nothing. He rushed over to his suitcase and pulled out his socks before sweeping his boots up in hand.
“Where are you going, sweetie?” Zhu An asked — and Mu Qing knew, he knew, the only reason the other man even bothered to ask was because he crossed in front of the TV. Twice. His husband didn’t care anymore.
He knew how important this trip was for them, and this was the way he handled it. It didn’t matter what way Mu Qing thought about it, all conclusions came back to the same thing: Zhu An wasn’t actually ready to change anything. Maybe he didn’t even want to save their marriage?
Wallet. Keycard — though he wasn’t entirely sure he would use the damn thing again. Cellphone.
He didn’t answer. Mu Qing made his way toward the door without even pausing to put his shoes on. He was done. As far as he could see, Zhu An was too. Somewhere in the course of their marriage, he stopped caring. He turned into the sort of person that went through the motions. He shoved his half-hard co*ck in Mu Qing and wiggled around half-assing the motions. Mu Qing could get himself off more successfully than that (and with a lot less nagging, fighting, and complicated emotions). The same was true for his husband. Clearly, he would be better off with a quick wank than a romantic holiday where the plan had been to see interesting sights, have a fun holiday, f*ck, and reconnect.
They were supposed to be making love; they were supposed to be rekindling the love they once upon a time. They hadn’t gotten anywhere f*cking near it. Mu Qing wasn’t going to kneel on his hands and knees unfulfilled, unhappy, and unloved any f*cking more.
“Mu Qing, stop!” Zhu An finally stood, but he didn’t look concerned. He looked annoyed. Mu Qing could see it — it was the set of his brows and the thin line his mouth pulled into. “You’re acting—”
“Don’t!” Mu Qing shrieked, wheeling around with wild eyes all over again. The tear stains were gone. He washed his face. He was a breath away from starting over again, though. “Don’t you f*cking dare tell me I’m acting irrational or over the top or whatever the f*ck you are about to say. Just get back to your game. God forbid you miss the next goal.”
He wrenched the door open, throwing it wide, and marching out.
“Honey, come back! I’m sorry! I know that we came to reconnect, but…” Zhu An started, but Mu Qing tuned him out.
He ran down the hallway with one destination in mind: The elevator. His feet were bare, but he still made it quickly, just managing to jab the button as his husband rounded the corner in his boxers, wide-eyed and confused.
He really hadn’t thought Mu Qing would march off like that. Mu Qing knew this was a surprise, but he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t handle the f*cking disinterest. He couldn’t handle living like this anymore. He hated the way his husband, the person who was supposed to love him the most in this world, made him feel nowadays.
A week ago, he’d been incredibly excited for this trip despite the fact that planning had fallen solely on his shoulders. He dismissed any bubbles of bitterness rising up while he took care of every facet of this second honeymoon and clung to the hope of what this time away would do for them. Zhu An was too busy with work projects — and whatever the hell else he deemed more important — but Mu Qing knew it would be worth it.
What a crock of sh*t.
It had all been for absolutely nothing. Why had his husband allowed him to waste his time, effort, and their money for all of this? He could watch the game at home; they could have mediocre sex at home.
Or they could just continue to avoid sex entirely as they had been. That would be better than the sh*tty sex he just suffered through. And to f*cking think he thought he wasn’t doing his part in their coupling.
The doors dinged open, and Mu Qing stepped in, jabbing for the lobby. Repeatedly. Then he stabbed the door close button for good measure.
Zhu Ann called ahead of him toward the elevator, “Sweetie, get out of the elevator and come back to the room. You don’t have anywhere to—”
“I don’t care if I have anywhere to go! I can’t stand to stay in that room with you anymore!” Mu Qing screeched back.
The doors closed with another of the mechanical dings before he could continue on his tirade. That was probably for the best. If he got started, he didn’t know what was going to come out of his mouth next.
Mu Qing pulled his shoes on during the trip down to the lobby, thankful he chose a pair that zipped rather than tied. With his feet covered properly, he finally shoved his wallet (keycard jammed inside) into his pocket along with his cell phone — after he turned the f*cking thing on silent.
He didn’t want to hear any of Zhu An’s complaints. Or criticisms. And he definitely didn’t want to hear his pathetic attempts to smooth over the situation. Nothing he could say right now was going to make any of this okay.
He could already feel the cell phone buzzing in his pocket, but at this point, he didn’t f*cking care.
He was hurt. He was upset. And he was done with his husband — whether for tonight or permanently, he was uncertain. A marriage where he was so unsatisfied wasn’t desirable for Mu Qing. Feeling the way he had for the last few years was the opposite of what Mu Qing wanted. He just wanted to be loved.
What just happened was not love, and it did not make Mu Qing feel loved. He couldn’t remember the last time Zhu An made him feel loved. He tried to make his husband feel loved. That had been why he agreed to therapy. That had been why he made a concerted effort to stop nagging.
Mu Qing had been trying, but he wasn’t sure what he got in return. He went out of his way to do the things that would make his husband happy. Where was the consideration for him? His pleasure didn’t even f*cking matter — neither did Zhu An’s considering the f*cking television, but that made it even worse. A chaste relationship had never been part of the vows they made to one another.
So how the hell had they gotten here?
Mu Qing could come up with a million different explanations, but he didn’t know which was right. He was honestly afraid of which one was right. And how often had his husband and their therapist pointed out that he shouldn’t give in to his distorted thinking by jumping to conclusions?
Somehow Zhu An calling him names (drama queen, nag, controlling bitch) had been left unaddressed, though.
He refused to think about it. So, instead, he looked around in search of where the hell he could go. He could pay for another room — that seemed drastic, though. Maybe he just needed to cool off? He doubted this particular state of mind was going anywhere, but he had to start somewhere a bit more manageable.
Then, he saw it — the sign for the hotel bar.
He didn’t drink, but a drink sounded exactly like what he needed right about now. Plenty of people sat at the tables as well as the bar itself, and a low hum of both music and conversation filtered through. If nothing else, Mu Qing knew he could disappear.
Mu Qing made his way to the bar, passing waiters, patrons, and their drinks along the way. Some of the drinks were in bottles. Beer, with labels. And then there were tall, skinny glasses filled with ice and black straws. Wine glasses filled with either white or red wines. And then there was a fishbowl-shaped glass with light blue liquid, pineapples, and cherries. The second occupant at that table had an ombre drink that fizzed and faded from a soft pink down to red.
Some of them didn’t look too bad.
His palms found the bartop, and Mu Qing slotted himself onto one of the stools. He checked either side of him. One of the drinks was in a stout glass with a ball of ice in it surrounded by amber liquid. On the other side was a stemmed glass with a wide, shallow bowl and a large rim adorned with a lime wedge. The rim was also coated with something.
“I need to see some ID,” the bartender said, coming to a stop in front of Mu Qing.
One side of his mouth quirked upward. There was something about being carded that actually felt flattering. That meant he looked young enough the bartender needed to double-check, right?
“Yeah, sure,” he answered.
He reached for his wallet and slid the license from its designated spot to hand it across the bar. The bartender studied the license for a moment, clocking the date of birth and looking between Mu Qing and the ID, before he nodded in acceptance.
“Thank you, Mu Qing. What can I get you?” the man smiled.
Mu Qing forced a smile back that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll have what that guy is having.”
He pointed to lime-adorned glass. The bartender nodded after he glanced at the beverage.
“You want salt, sugar, or Tajin on the rim?” he inquired, already moving about behind the bar to begin grabbing the various components that he needed.
“Sugar,” Mu Qing decided.
Maybe he’d try salt next time. It was his first drink. Sugar seemed a little bit smarter — if he didn’t like it, he could lick a spot clear and then he’d be able to ignore it if needed. Logic, right?
His phone continued to buzz in his pocket. He ignored the stupid thing. Honestly, if it got too annoying, Mu Qing would just turn it off rather than answer. He settled his elbows on the bar in front of him and awaited his drink, watching the bartender until he slid the lime-forward drink in front of him. Mu Qing slipped the man his keycard for him to add it to the charges for the room and then slotted his mouth over the rim, feeling sweet granules of sugar coat his tongue as he sipped the margarita.
The balance of the two was nice.
Mu Qing took several large gulps, slipping his lips further along the rim and collecting the sugar on his tongue. It was really good. Before he even realized it, Mu Qing reached the bottom of the bowl. He pouted. A warmth buzzed beneath his skin, a pleasant burn settling in his gut, and the tart and sweet flavor lingered on his lips and tongue. He definitely wanted more.
His lips pursed in thought. He could continue to drink — and that sounded like the best option to him at the moment. The alternative to that was to head back up to the hotel room. He had probably made his point. Zhu An was probably worried enough by now. And yet… the burn of annoyance, hurt, anger, and disappointment bubbled back up in his gut.
Was he really ready to forgive him, to sweep it all under the rug again? No. He still wanted to rage.
He wasn’t—
The bartender moved to slide another drink in front of him. This one was an ombre pink to red with a cherry in it. The glass was tall, skinny, and it bubbled with carbonation, filled with ice. A black straw with paper left at the top for him to remove sat inside the container.
Mu Qing looked up at the bartender in confusion as he studied the bobbing cherry in the tumbler. “I didn’t order this.”
“This is from the gentleman at the table,” he explained, jerking his chin to a spot behind Mu Qing.
He turned around to see an older man sitting by himself with salt and pepper hair. He wasn’t old, just older than Mu Qing. If Mu Qing had to guess, he would place the man around his late thirties to early forties. And he was clearly confident given the wink he shot Mu Qing as he raised his own, much shorter glass, filled with amber liquid.
Forward. Or maybe he just gathered Mu Qing was in a state? It was hard to tell.
After all, how often had Zhu An told him that he tended to walk around with a sour face? How frequently had he been asked to smile more? And damn if he hadn’t been trying.
Fat lot of good it had done!
Mu Qing had no idea what to make of the gesture, but he lifted the glass up in thanks before he slipped the chunk of paper from the top of the straw so he could wrap his lips around it. The first pull was slightly bubbly with the refreshing lightness of something citrusy mingling with even fruitier notes. The balance of sweet, acid, and masked alcohol blended in a way that made Mu Qing realize how people could get completely hammered without necessarily meaning to.
The second gulp went down even more smoothly than the first. As did the third. Mu Qing paused to pluck the cherry bobbing amongst the ice out and pop it into his mouth, yanking it free from the stem with his teeth as he chewed up the delicious maraschino cherry.
He wasn’t a seasoned drinker, but he could see the appeal when some of them tasted this good.
Curiously, he peered back at the man who bought his drink. He was watching. Closely. He was interested, for whatever reason. Mu Qing figured it probably had to do with how hellish he looked right now. He thought he took care of his tear stains, but who the f*ck knew. He still felt frayed and like he bordered on breaking any f*cking moment.
So, sure, the older man was interested — like someone might be interested in a car crash. Or what he perceived to be an easy lay. Too bad his husband clearly wasn’t. Zhu An would rather watch sports than make love. Mu Qing knew — in his slowly warming, not yet inebriated, but still emotional state — it wasn’t because he wasn’t attractive. He took care of himself. In fact, he took care of himself better than the man he married did.
So, why wasn’t that enough?
What more did he have to do to be desirable to the man he pledged his life to? What was he somehow lacking? Did it have anything to do with him or more to do with someone else?
Mu Qing knew the therapist told him it wasn’t healthy to catastrophize. Zhu An and the therapist agreed on that point. (They agreed on a lot of points, often leaving Mu Qing feeling like the third wheel in the room.) Mu Qing always jumped to the worst-case scenario. They called him a pessimist. He considered himself to be more of a realist, but that was neither here nor there. It was just another piece of homework Mu Qing had been given to work on.
As he slurped down his fizzy drink, Mu Qing couldn’t think of a single goddamn thing his husband did to work on their marriage. Had he even been given any homework? Where was his f*cking effort? Where were his changes? He wasn’t perfect.
Though it hadn’t been easy, Mu Qing admitted to his own needs in therapy — one of which was to feel desired. He needed the attention. He needed his husband’s love. He needed… more than he was getting.
But what had their therapist told Zhu An to do to help him? He couldn’t recall. He only remembered getting handed a brochure on distorted thinking accompanied by the whisper of solo sessions.
He was not going back to that hotel room. He didn’t want to see Zhu An. He might never want to see him again. Having to face his humiliation by being in the same room with his husband again sounded like the last thing he wanted to do, especially considering vegging out to sports was more appealing than sex with him.
“He’s still looking at you,” the bartender said with a nod as he came to a stop in front of Mu Qing again. Mu Qing blinked, his lips still wrapped around the straw as he took another swill of the fruity co*cktail. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No,” Mu Qing answered automatically, and then looked down at his glass after he took another sip. The ice rattled. He was empty. “Wait — yes, please. Another of whatever this is.”
“A Dirty Shirley Temple,” the bartender provided as he began to move about behind the bar and quickly filled a new, tall glass full of the same ombre concoction. Complete with cherry. When it was finished, he slid it across to Mu Qing. “Enjoy.”
Mu Qing took another rattling sip of melted ice from his current glass before he switched to the fresh drink. Then he remembered the bartender’s words. Silverfox was still looking. Mu Qing turned on his stool, and sure enough, the man was still watching him, eyes locked on Mu Qing. Their eyes met, and he nodded in greeting. Mu Qing made a decision. (Even if he didn’t know what the hell he was doing.) He stood, grasping the drink in his hand, as if he’d been caught in a siren song. He began to move toward the table only to stop in his trek as he spotted a familiar face from the entrance to the bar.
Zhu An.
He didn’t want to see him. The sting of hurt, the emotion, bubbled up all over again. Mu Qing abruptly changed directions even as he heard a questioning voice behind him and walked away with his drink in hand.
He ducked into the first men’s bathroom he came across and hid in a stall. He didn’t care if he was being childish or immature. He was too emotionally raw to give a sh*t about any of that. He slurped down his pretty ombre drink and ate the cherry off the stem while sitting on the toilet, watching the shadows of other bathroom-goers coming and going. His pocket buzzed. Once. Twice. Thrice. Over and over again. He didn’t answer.
His drink finished, Mu Qing slipped from the bathroom and deposited the now empty glass on one of the tables that hadn’t been cleared yet. Zhu An sat at the bar, his gaze settled down on his damn phone. A buzz in his pocket followed. First a text, and then a moment later, the elongated buzz of an incoming phone call.
“Hey,” the silverfox purred as he approached him. “It looks like you finished that drink all alone. Maybe we could have the next one together?”
“Thanks for the drink,” Mu Qing said lowly, his voice sounding hoarse to his own ears.
His face was hot. His nose stung. Oh… f*ck.
He was on the verge of tears — it hit him like a ton of bricks as the man waited, impatience growing by the moment.
“I’m leaving — thanks,” Mu Qing numbly responded, already moving to skirt around the man. “Bye.”
He darted out of the bar as he heard his name following after him. He couldn’t handle this. Couldn’t handle him. The ache of Zhu An’s disinterest still stung, but the underwhelming half-hearted attempt to find him born from guilt and obligation burned even more.
He refused to do this right now. He refused to turn around. So, he ran.
Mu Qing burst through the doors of the hotel in a rush. He peered down the street in either direction before he picked one and continued. He could not stand to be pulled back into mediocrity right now. He couldn’t stand accepting the cajoling attempts to convince him he was being overdramatic. He couldn’t f*cking stand the idea that this was somehow his fault.
Maybe that was the most sickening part; he knew it would somehow be heaped onto him.
He ran. And ran. And then when he thought he couldn’t keep going, Mu Qing ran some f*cking more.
It didn’t matter exactly how far he got. Zhu An was not going to literally run after him. That was not the man he married. Even though Mu Qing always secretly wanted that dramatic race to the airport and beg not to leave kind of love, that was not them. He thought he was okay with that. He thought a lot of things. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Mu Qing pulled his phone from his pocket. The missed calls were memorialized in a banner on the lock screen, as were the last few texts his wonderful and caring husband sent. Mu Qing stared at them.
❣️Zhu An ❣️
❣️ You’re being ridiculous
❣️ Get back to the hotel now and stop being stubborn
❣️ I guess you don’t remember your promise to work on overreacting.
His phone buzzed in his hand again. Four times. He couldn’t help but look.
❣️Zhu An ❣️
❣️ You are being too sensitive and acting crazy
❣️ This is always your problem
❣️ You’re hot and cold and it’s exhausting!
❣️ Just come back, you’re not thinking straight.
Mu Qing didn’t dare delve further back and read the other text messages. This was more than enough. This was what his husband thought of him.
But they both couldn’t be bland and boring, could they? Someone had to bring some excitement into the mix, right?
Hell, who was he kidding?
He wasn’t excitement.
He was Mu Qing. The drama queen. The nagging, stubborn, overreacting, sensitive crazy man whose temperament was, apparently, never predictable. He was the husband who made questionable decisions and who was so intolerable he wasn’t even worth f*cking properly. And when that wasn’t him he was a controlling bitch, leaving Zhu An no room to err, relax, or — whatever.
What f*cking good was he?
Mu Qing applied pressure to the power button with his thumb, waiting until the phone powered down before he shoved the now useless brick into his pocket. If Zhu An thought what he said was going to get him back to the hotel room to talk, to sleep, to do any f*cking thing with him, he was wrong.
Instead, Mu Qing began to walk.
The destination didn’t matter. Away was enough. He followed the flow of foot traffic through the streets, his mind whirling with thoughts he couldn’t shut off. He came to a sudden stop behind a pedestrian standing still on the sidewalk — outside of what looked like a nightclub. They weren’t alone. A line of attractive twenty-somethings lined the street, most of them dressed up for the evening. Mu Qing knew what he threw on wasn’t exactly what he would call club-worthy. If he had been planning on going out, especially to a place like this, he would have put more effort in.
Mu Qing checked his reflection in the windows of the neighboring buildings; he wasn’t at his most presentable. He managed to get rid of the tear stains, at least. He wasn’t on the verge of crying now, and he would lie if anybody asked him if he fell when he fled the hotel.
He didn’t look God awful, but then again, he wasn’t trying to impress anyone either. He just needed a place to lay low. And, well, another drink, truth be told. That seemed like the best way to banish everything from his brain.
The hint of a warm buzz beneath his skin had been all but chased away in his escape. He wanted that feeling back. He wanted to stop thinking about how often his husband hadn’t been interested. Without even trying, Mu Qing could think of multiple times where he had to fake his reaction and seek out his own pleasure; he had just blamed it on his control freak nature.
It was something he had been working on since they covered that it made Zhu An feel emasculated and obsolete in therapy. Again, it all circled back around to the fault being tossed squarely at Mu Qing’s feet. But he did his part.
At least, he tried.
Hadn’t he?
Or had he been so controlling, so neurotic, and so ridiculous that his husband lost all of the attraction that had once been there? Did he even find Mu Qing attractive anymore at all?
f*ck, he could not handle the loop his thought train found itself on. People filed in behind Mu Qing to stand in line for the club, and he decided to stay put, following the line as a group was allowed in. He considered leaving, finding somewhere that was more of a dump, somewhere he wouldn’t stand out like an overly unappealing domestic sore thumb. But then he realized it was a gay club.
Paradise Manor.
It sounded like it was probably going to be a strip club, maybe a go-go bar, but definitely something scandalous. Zhu An would never think to look for him in a place like this. This wasn’t their scene. This was not the sort of place the two of them frequented. This was the sort of place his husband would avoid, in fact, so it was perfect. And even if he were anybody’s type, they would likely see through him faster than his own husband had, right?
Mu Qing didn’t have a way to pretty it all up and tuck in the pain for the moment. People would hopefully leave him to drink in peace. Or maybe they’d be too drunk to notice.
A gay club — the clientele would be interested in glamorous people. Exciting people. And while Zhu An loved to call him a drama queen (probably because he was consistently being one), that didn’t make him attractive to the sort of people that would go out to a nightclub like this. The line shifted, and he shuffled forward. A plain-looking man dressed all in black (including a face mask) gave him a look over before nodding him in, and Mu Qing stepped inside.
Despite having been out for over a decade, this was his first time in a gay club, and the decor was nicer than he anticipated.
Red and black decorated the walls of the mood-lit building, and it opened up to an expansive space lined by tables and booths on the periphery. The crowning glory of the club happened to be Paradise Manor’s extremely long bar highlighted with passionately hued neon lighting beneath the bartop and accompanied by the occasional pop of white lighting hung from above and beneath the rows of bottles on display.
The dance floor took up the majority of the space. Various lighting effects flickered above the crowd of grinding dancers as they gyrated to the beat of the music. Whoever had taken care of that portion of things had definitely earned their paycheck; the lights flashed in perfect timing with the music, programmed expertly. The floor itself, though lit up by the show above, didn’t seem to show any signs of wear or tear; it had been maintained religiously if Mu Qing had to wager a guess.
A glance upward revealed a balcony that housed luxurious private areas waited on by beautiful men and women carrying trays of fancy, expensive-looking bottles. The entirety of the upper level was protected by a stylish, black railing illuminated from underneath. Though he couldn’t see the entirety of the upper level, Mu Qing could just make out a hint of deep red and black tufted furniture — apparently, with status came the right to much more comfortable booths and seating.
Care had been put into every inch of the club.
Maybe he had been missing out?
Mu Qing pushed past undulating bodies — many made up in the sexiest ways possible, scantily clad and eye-catching. Corsets, bustiers, vests with nothing beneath, short shorts, mini skirts, glitter, rhinestones, silk, and leather all intermingled on the various patrons of the club. The very atmosphere of the club and its occupants exuded both sex and excitement. It made him feel underdressed and out of place.
The point of return was long gone for Mu Qing, no matter how he felt. He already made his mind up; he was staying.
The loud bass shook Mu Qing’s very bones, and he felt the bass in the very soles of his boots. It reverberated in his gut. The further he made his way into the establishment, the less he minded. He adapted. Maybe that was the point. It gave Mu Qing the urge to move.
And he did — to the bar.
“Can I get a shot of Patron, a Corona, and then something for you, handsome?” the customer across the bar asked.
The man leaned heavily onto the bar, managing to invade Feng Xin’s personal space, as he put on a silky purr completely lost over the roar of the music and crowd.
Friday night during this part of the year happened to be one of the busiest. None who came through the doors entered with the expectation of a quiet atmosphere in Paradise Manor. Party animals filled every space available making the club a packed f*cking house, and each and every one of them came for both the drinks and to dance. Feng Xin already spent the better part of the beginning of his shift in constant motion. He had retrieved ice multiple times already as he worked to satiate the masses and their desire for beverages in a never-ending cycle.
“I can do your shot and Corona, but no can do on something for me,” Feng Xin said, already moving to pull the bottle of tequila out. He tipped it, watching as the liquid filled the shot glass, and just as quickly righted it before he slipped the bottle back in place on the shelf. “Bossman doesn’t let us f*cking drink while we’re on duty.”
Next, the bottle of beer from the cooler. Feng Xin moved quickly enough he had it uncapped and already deposited the lime wedge in the neck of the bottle as the club-goer pouted. Visibly. What f*cking bartender wanted to get drunk on shift? Not him. Why would anybody even think they wanted to? It was a f*cking job.
Then again, it wasn’t like Feng Xin loved this gig. Sometimes the bottle could be tempting as hell, but Feng Xin had willpower. There was also the threat of physical violence from Hua Cheng if he so much as toed out of goddamn line. Bartending was to get him by while still in flux, figuring out what the f*ck came next. He had no plans of f*cking it up for a stupid reason.
“Aww, but I was looking forward to a toast,” the man said as he piled his elbows onto the bar, as if he were pressing some cleavage together.
He slid the bill across the bar. This was not Feng Xin’s favorite way to accept cash, but he took it, anyway.
He pointedly tried not to look at the highlighted chest, which made it impossible not to notice the perfectly baby-smooth skin beneath the mesh shirt the customer wore. Feng Xin saw the same netting on the guy’s legs — his bits only covered by short shorts. His boots weren’t bad, but Feng Xin wondered how the hell he would be getting home later; the night air would be f*cking cold. Then again, he already had a few drinks, so he probably would be drunk enough not to feel it.
“Maybe after your shift, hm?” the customer added, grinning before he knocked back the shot.
Feng Xin caught the drawer to the cash register as it opened.
Not f*cking happening. Nope. He wasn’t gay; he got this job because of his best friend, Xie Lian, not because it was indicative of his sexuality. But he’d also been warned that it might be offensive and people might not appreciate it if he rebuffed them by throwing that fact around.
It had been one of a handful of subjects his best friend and his menace of a husband went over in regards to his position here at Paradise Manor. They all knew this was a temporary situation at best. At worst, he’d be here for a while, but even that he doubted would be the case. Feng Xin was not known for his patience.
More than once, he contemplated asking to switch with Yin Yu to cover the door instead, but then he’d have to deal with IDs. He didn’t welcome that pressure and bullsh*t on board. How many times had he heard the other man bitch about the new f*cking fakes?
Instead, he was stuck behind the bar — getting hit on.
Feng Xin let out a breathy, stunted chuckle. He never knew how the hell to react when he couldn’t be direct. Plus, he had to f*cking acknowledge this guy could not be further from his type. He was too small; even the women — scratch that, woman — Feng Xin had been with were taller.
Jian Lan. His former flame. His ex-wife.
f*ck.
Now was not the time to think about her.
“I don’t think my other half would like that, buddy.” Feng Xin plastered on a half smile as he awkwardly held up his left hand where his plain, gold wedding ring still sat. He had yet to remove it, despite it no longer symbolizing any sort of legal attachments. He shrugged in an attempt to soften the rebuke. “You should buy a drink for someone that is interested, though. I’m sure someone around here would appreciate it.”
The twink sighed overdramatically, “Why are all the good ones taken?”
“Guess that’s the luck of the damn draw,” Feng Xin snorted. If the dissolution of his marriage was anything to go by, he definitely wasn’t one of the good ones. He figured he probably shouldn’t say that in front of a stranger. A paying, tipping stranger. “Your change and ID,” he said, sliding the bills across the bar.
“Well, I’m a regular, so if you ever decide to call it quits, flag me down,” the man winked and blew Feng Xin a kiss as he walked away.
The bartender watched as the club-goer disappeared into the club with his beer in hand. He wasn’t the first person to hit on Feng Xin tonight. He definitely wouldn’t be the last. Xie Lian tried to convince him to stop hiding behind a wedding ring for a marriage that didn’t exist, but Feng Xin was still having trouble letting go of the whole thing. Being alone wasn’t easy, after all.
He still struggled with it all — massively.
Feng Xin wasn’t wired to be alone, and he certainly wasn’t made to have his roots torn up from underneath him, left to flounder. The life he planned for himself, the life he had been willing to work for, no longer existed. It left him in a bizarre limbo of trying to figure everything out all over again.
He planned on forever; she decided forever wasn’t right for her. She decided she’d been unhappy. Instead of trying to talk it out with him, she took off. Poof. Then came the divorce papers.
“Feng Xiiiiiin,” a voice singsonged loudly over both the noise in his brain and the surrounding club, trying to break through. It worked. Feng Xin blinked as he peered over his shoulder at Shi Qingxuan. “Best friend, I think we lost you there for a second! You’ve got someone waiting in your section, but if you need, I can take them?”
His head snapped in the direction the other bartender gestured, and sure enough, there someone sat waiting. Holy sh*t, was there someone waiting. Feng Xin blinked stupidly for a moment.
Shi Qingxuan looked between the patron and then back at Feng Xin. Then back again. “Ooooh, nevermind! You definitely have to—”
“Behind you,” He Xuan interrupted, his baritone low and yet somehow just loud enough to hear over the volume around them. “If you don’t want to serve him, I can.”
Feng Xin peered behind him as the third of the four bartenders total grabbed several supplies he needed for his own station further down the bar on Shi Qingxuan’s other side. Shi Qingxuan scoffed out an offended noise, their hip jutting out as they waggled a finger in their actual best friend’s direction.
“He-xiong! Can’t you see the sparks?” That wild finger gesticulated, barely missing Feng Xin’s arm in the process. “He has to serve the pretty boy, c’mon!”
The eye roll from the other man spoke volumes. Feng Xin didn’t even blame He Xuan. Shi Qingxuan did sh*t like this all of the time — on a whim. Still, there was one thing they weren’t exactly wrong about… the customer was a pretty boy.
And not pretty in the same way as Shi Qingxuan, or even Xie Lian. The man now seated at the bar wasn’t made up like his fellow bartender, and he didn’t have that same doe-eyed beauty thing his best friend somehow naturally perfected. No, he looked almost… edgy. Not like He Xuan where it bordered on goth or punk depending on the day. He seemed to be something new that Feng Xin had no clue how to categorize.
Long, shiny raven hair fell from a ponytail. He hadn’t dressed up like most of the patrons; in fact, it didn’t look like he went out of his way to be a spectacle in any way, shape, or form. Feng Xin still found himself staring for a moment. Even from this distance, he could see the long lashes framing sharp, keen eyes; he had a straight nose leading down to plump, soft looking lips. The only problem — those beautiful lips were pursed in a sad frown.
Though, the sad could be his own projection; the f*cker might just be frowning. Feng Xin needed to stop staring either way. Customers hated waiting.
“You know what? You’re right for once,” He Xuan decided before Feng Xin could say sh*t, his black-lined eyes pulling away from Feng Xin before he stalked off back to his own station, supplies in hand.
“I’m right lots more than you’re giving me credit for, He-xiong!” Shi Qingxuan whined as they clapped Feng Xin on the back. “Go get him, tiger!”
“What the f*ck?”
Feng Xin watched as the airy, genderfluid bartender flounced off with a bottle of rum in hand. He hadn’t even noticed they had grabbed it along the way. Distracted much? f*ck.
Feng Xin wasn’t going to go get sh*t. He would serve the customer his drink, and that was it. He grabbed a napkin and stalked down the bar to the awaiting patron. “Welcome to Paradise Manor, what can I get you?” The napkin landed on the bar in front of him as Feng Xin placed one hand on the lower countertop in front of him, leaning in to make it easier to hear the other man.
The man stared at him for a moment. Feng Xin had no clue what to make of the look, but he smiled at the pretty boy nonetheless. After a moment, he leaned forward slightly to look left up the bar, then right. He was lucky that a banger blared over the speakers. It distracted the crowd from turning impatient and pissed off while they waited on the pretty boy to make his order.
“That,” he announced finally, pointing down the bar.
Feng Xin followed his finger down to Shi Qingxuan’s section. They slid a strawberry margarita, complete with the finicky f*cking skewer of fruits atop, to the customer that they were serving. Of course, the pretty boy asked for one of the more time-consuming drinks. The complex co*cktails Hua Cheng approved for the menu were his fellow bartender’s specialty, not his. But he knew how to make it.
They all f*cking did; that didn’t mean Feng Xin liked it.
“Strawberry margarita, good f*cking choice,” Feng Xin said instead of bitching as he moved to grab the tequila. “Salt, sugar—”
“Sugar, please,” the customer cut him off before he finished the whole spiel.
“You’ve got it,” he responded before he rattled off the price.
The customer shrugged and reached for his wallet while Feng Xin got busy. He could get behind someone who could be decisive when they figured out what they wanted. He grabbed the jigger, glass, and fruit. He moved decisively and quick. Still, he knew he needed to buy time while he prepped the damn thing to keep the customer happy before he ended up on the wrong end of an irate drunk. So, talking it was.
“I’m Feng Xin, I’ll take that card after I get your drink finished. If you want, you can open a tab too,” he explained. The guy didn’t look like any of the frequent fliers that he recognized. “This your first time at Paradise Manor?”
“Why?” he asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Feng Xin’s brow pulled upward, not sure what the hell he made of the sour expression. Hell, he didn’t know why there was something about that look that could be called appealing and cute. It might be the wrinkle to his nose, or the fact it brought more attention to his mouth, and — Jesus f*ck!
What was wrong with him?
Feng Xin didn’t stare at random customer’s lips. That was the sort of weird sh*t Shi Qingxuan would do before attempting to pull everyone in with them. He Xuan was a safe bet to lose the damn battle, but not him. Feng Xin shook his head a little. It sent his bangs out of his face. “No reason, just don’t think I’ve ever f*cking seen you in here before. I’m making conversation.”
“Oh,” he breathed.
His hands moved forward to fiddle with the napkin. The gesture held a delicate quality that drew the eye. His manicured fingernails stood out against the red napkins Hua Cheng insisted on. They were black, but they lacked the chipping and the little painted on fish He Xuan tended to add. Or the red ombre bullsh*t of Hua Cheng’s.
“No,” he finally decided to answer the damn question; Feng Xin found himself a little surprised too. “I’ve never been here before.”
“Spring break?” Feng Xin tossed back.
He grabbed the little skewer and stabbed it through the strawberry slivers, lemon wedge, lime wedge, and then ended it with the remainder of the strawberry.
“Oh, come on.” The man rolled his eyes. “We both know I’m not a college student.”
“You never know,” Feng Xin shrugged noncommittally.
Pretty boy made the pinched face again, as if he couldn’t decide how to take the comment. A laugh bubbled up in the back of Feng Xin’s throat as he sugared the rim of the margarita glass. (It was a little smaller than standard, but it was a money-making grab by the menace.)
“Are you laughing at me?” he accused.
“No, no — you just pulled a f*cking face. It was cute,” Feng Xin shrugged.
The man stared at him like he grew a second head. That was, officially, the first time Feng Xin ever said anything even remotely complimentary — or potentially flirty — while standing behind this bar. The f*ck?
“Oh my God, don’t bother — I’ll tip you,” he groused as he looked down and avoided eye contact.
There was a pink tint to his cheeks Feng Xin found himself surprised by. Should he be? Was it flattering to have the bartender barb a compliment back? Usually, he was on the other end of this sh*t, and he didn’t even f*cking want it. Hell, maybe it was completely unwanted and the flush was that of an angry man.
He sure didn’t look upset from where Feng Xin was standing.
Still, he found himself baffled at what the f*ck came out of his mouth even as he moved to finish pouring and garnishing up the margarita. It wasn’t nearly as pretty as what Shi Qingxuan served, but it wasn’t dogsh*t either. The cuts were a little less cute. It wasn’t f*cking dainty, but Feng Xin no sooner sat the thing on the napkin before the customer grabbed it and took a big gulp from the straw.
He let out a little moan of appreciation before he realized what he did and his arm shot out, brandishing the card.
Feng Xin chuckled again and side-stepped to the POS system. One strawberry margarita. The receipt printed off, and Feng Xin put the receipt, card, and pen in one of the fancy-ass black trays before he slid it across the bar.
“Here you go, Mu Qing.”
Mu Qing didn’t even bother to remove his lips from the straw as he continued to sip steadily. He reached for the pen and scribbled his signature, and it still managed to look a whole hell of a lot better than Feng Xin’s. Feng Xin took the copy meant for the bar and shoved it down on top of the pile with all of the others accumulated throughout the night.
“Thanks, Feng Xin,” Mu Qing finally offered, his mouth still lingering near the straw.
Why the f*ck was that cute? Seriously, what was with Feng Xin tonight? He stared at the other man for a moment as he nodded.
“You’re welcome,” he responded as he looked up and down the bar before he leaned forward. “So what brought you here if not spring break?”
Mu Qing blinked up at him owlishly.
“It’s not important,” was the answer he finally settled on, his tone seeping with bitterness as his gaze focused down on his drink. He wrapped his hands around the margarita glass. It looked almost like he was trying to hide behind the f*cking thing. But the movement was what caused him to finally notice it—
The ring on Mu Qing’s left hand.
He was married. In a club all alone. And Feng Xin had… nope.
f*ck. sh*t. Abort.
Wait! What the f*ck was he aborting? He was just f*cking working!
“Well, I hope you’re enjoying Paradise Manor,” Feng Xin offered another smile. “That margarita treating you okay?”
“En,” Mu Qing answered.
His lips never left the black straw. He looked up at Feng Xin through his lashes. Heat flooded his face and the bartender reached over for his water bottle, uncapping it before he lifted it to his lips to banish the image of — nope. Feng Xin had never been the sort of pervert to imagine his co*ck in someone’s mouth, so why the hell would the idea of those lashes looking up at him be anything?
Clearly, Feng Xin hadn’t taken care of business quite enough downstairs. He’d have to add it to the growing f*cking list of sh*t he needed to get to. Item number 167: jack off. Because who the hell wanted to get horny and ridiculously thirsty at f*cking work?
Not Feng Xin.
Lucky for him, another patron wandered up to the bar, and he jumped back into the flow. The music dipped into a valley, which meant anyone who didn’t want to dance slower and more sensually rather than thrash and gyrate gravitated to the bar to order from the various stations. The other three were soon inundated too.
Feng Xin quickly lost count of the number of drinks he made and served as the minutes trickled by; it didn’t escape his notice that Mu Qing never moved from his station at the bar, before his attention was pulled back to the task at hand.
“I’ll have a whiskey, neat.” The man shone with a slick sheen of sweat from dancing up a f*cking storm.
Feng Xin nodded. “Got it! You enjoying Paradise Manor so far, buddy?”
Conversation came easy to Feng Xin usually, and this was no different. He held up two of the most popular bottles, given the man hadn’t selected, and he pointed out the crowd favorite. Feng Xin idly remarked on his choice even as he pulled out the tumbler, ice, and tipped the bottle — he internally counted out the correct amount before the bottle righted in his grip, and he placed the classic drink in front of the awaiting customer.
“I’d also like to order him another one of whatever he’s drinking,” the man continued.
He was older than Feng Xin, sporting a thinning hairline, but an impressive physique (though not quite as impressive as Feng Xin’s, of course), and he pointed down the bar toward Mu Qing. The married guy. Feng Xin felt a pang of annoyance.
That he promptly f*cking ignored.
“Strawberry margarita,” Feng Xin supplied as his eyes traced over the man and his stylish stubble. He looked more like he stuck his face in a f*cking ashtray as far as Feng Xin was concerned. He still had to serve him, though. “You sure?”
He confirmed; Feng Xin shifted down the bar toward the tequila and supplies he needed yet again.
Half an inch of watered-down liquid remained in Mu Qing’s glass at this point. He managed to unfuse his lips from the straw and was now nibbling on the skewered strawberries. The juice from the strawberry lingered on his bottom lip for a long moment before he swept his tongue out to catch the droplet and avoid a mess.
Feng Xin subconsciously copied the move… and then promptly wanted to smack himself.
Focus. He needed to focus. He needed to make another one of those damn strawberry margaritas — though he found, for some reason, he minded a little less this time. Bizarre.
He prepared the drink faster than the time before, his eyes constantly darting toward the customer the concoction was intended for. Mu Qing finished his skewer and now had an eighth an inch of pale pink liquid in his glass, more water than slush at this point. With the new drink prepared, Feng Xin grabbed another napkin and placed it down next to the one squarely planted in front of the man.
“And here’s another strawberry margarita — courtesy of the dude down the f*cking bar.” Feng Xin nodded over his left shoulder toward the man.
Mu Qing’s head shot in that direction, his eyes wide in surprise. It was not cute. Feng Xin didn’t give a sh*t about his reaction. It didn’t matter. He had been tipped, paid, and that happened to be all that mattered to him. Still, he couldn’t help but notice the surprise.
Whiskey Neat held his tumbler up, and Mu Qing hesitated before he did the same (after slurping down the last bits of his first). He took a healthy sip of the new beverage before the glass landed on the bar. Feng Xin couldn’t even hear the sound amongst all of the others in the nightclub.
He reached for the empty. “Let me get this out of your way.”
“Thanks,” Mu Qing responded from around his straw.
His face had given up the fight to control the flush. His cheeks seemed to be stained an adorable pink hue now. It was probably the booze.
“Anytime,” Feng Xin replied.
He turned away toward another waiting customer. More drinks to make. More drunk patrons to cut off — all that good sh*t.
Feng Xin moved quickly despite the slower music, but he could hear the tempo picking back up by the moment. It wouldn't be much longer, maybe another song or so, before the beat would drop (or pick back up, whatever) and the bodies flooding the bar would rush back onto the dance floor if they weren’t parched enough to wait. Still, Feng Xin filled order after order.
Corona. Bud lite. Miller lite.
Shot of tequila. Shot of vodka (ew). Fireball shot. A f*cking lemon drop — that one Feng Xin passed along to Shi Qingxuan.
Vodka cranberry. Rum and co*ke (make it two). Long Island.
Feng Xin’s ice, along with his glasses, dwindled by the moment. Even as he was swarmed, his dark eyes continually shot back toward Mu Qing, who remained stalwart in his stool at the bar. He hadn’t made his way to the dance floor once. Clearly, he wasn’t at the club to celebrate, or at least that was Feng Xin’s guess at this point.
Whiskey Neat leaned in close, invading his personal space as he devoured the man with his eyes. Mu Qing continued to sip at his margarita, slouched forward with his elbows on the bar. The picture of being welcoming and openness he was f*cking not.
Eventually, Whiskey Neat got the hint and wandered off, only to be replaced by Rum and co*ke. Another Strawberry Margarita appeared in front of Mu Qing along with the shorter, bespectacled, suspender-wearing man with an actual beard. He didn’t fare any better. Following those two f*ckers, while Feng Xin ducked into the back for another bucket of ice and then grabbed another couple of cases of beer to stock the coolers, came Bowtie (whose neckwear, and the fact that he hadn’t removed the damn thing despite the heat floating down from the lights, was far more interesting than his order). At least Bowtie McFancypants didn’t come with another drink.
Feng Xin made a note to keep an eye on the pretty boy; he refused to over-serve anyone.
As it turned out, he didn’t get the chance to eagle-eye over the patron for too long before the demand from on high came to get his ass to the back for his mandatory break. It didn’t come a moment too soon; Feng Xin was starving. He wolfed down the grilled chicken salad he hid in the employee fridge while he sat on the couch, refueling his energy for the rest of the night.
He finished his “lunch” break (at midnight) with a handful of trail mix he shoveled into his mouth. Xie Lian caught him as he washed his hands. His best friend smiled at him, bright and blinding.
“We need another bucket of ice thrown in the well when you get back to it,” Xie Lian announced, sounding a little breathless as he flopped down onto the sofa.
Feng Xin grinned over at him, feeling sympathy for his exhaustion but knowing they still had many more hours to go. “You got it, bossman.”
“Oh, please don’t call me that! This is San Lang’s club, not mine,” he whined with an adorable pout on his mouth.
He truly believed that. Hua Cheng said everything under the sun that proved Xie Lian to be everyone’s boss. Including the owner’s. So, it felt somehow apt.
“Whatever you say,” Feng Xin snorted.
“I do say!” he echoed, nodding. Feng Xin was pretty sure that was an attempt to be firm. It didn’t work. Then, the firm expression melted into something a bit softer, and Feng Xin braced himself. “So… how are you holding up?”
If that wasn’t a kick to the f*cking balls. Feng Xin didn’t know how he wanted to answer the question. But for the first time in a little while, he didn’t feel like telling Xie Lian he just wanted his f*cking wife back. That was probably a sign of improvement. Or maybe he finally accepted the truth. Either way — progress.
“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” he reassured.
“Ah ha ha, you sound like me,” Xie Lian laughed awkwardly as he reached up to scratch his cheek. They both knew his question, and any reaction that showed he didn’t believe his friend, would only make him a hypocrite. It seemed like he chose to leave it at that. “Just let me know if you need anything — oh! Um… before I forget, there are a couple of guys that look like they’re nearing the point of being over-served. Will you keep an eye out?”
That was Xie Lian. Always looking out for others; he cared about everyone else more than himself. Of course, he clocked those customers, too.
“You bet.” Feng Xin flashed a grin. “I already had a guy in my section that I planned on keeping an eye on. I’ll just do a whole ass once over, no worries.”
“Great!” he chirped as Feng Xin exited the employee lounge.
Once Feng Xin fetched ice and stood behind the bar again, it took absolutely no time at all to take stock of the situation at hand. Bodies flailed and bumped on the dance floor. From a purely observational point of view, the scene could be f*cking bizarre. In the throes of the crowd, the action clearly felt sexy — and enticing.
For some people. Not for Feng Xin. Feng Xin hadn’t danced in forever.
Part of his perusal of the crowd at the bar, though, linked directly to what he and Xie Lian had both been thinking. He spotted multiple individuals who were at the point that they needed cut off. In fact, He Xuan leaned his hip against the bar, arms crossed, as he shook his head, denying some dumbass in a ripped tank top any more alcohol. Shi Qingxuan served a woman a bottle of water at their adjacent station.
Feng Xin’s station had one stand out. He felt his stomach flip flop.
Mu Qing.
The pretty boy in question hadn’t broken into a full sway, but he — almost imperceptibly — bobbed back and forth on his stool. An empty sat in front of him on a napkin and a man with a gold chain and far too much jewelry dripping from his f*cking body sat down another. Feng Xin felt the frown settle into his face.
Not f*cking happening.
His feet carried him around the bar automatically. He stalked over to the pair and plucked the drink from the wannabe-Cassanova before it landed on the bartop in front of Mu Qing. “He’s f*cking done drinking for the night, buddy.”
Mu Qing blinked, cutely, up at Feng Xin as his body drifted a little further into his space. Feng Xin felt it, but he didn’t mind. He remained solid even as Gold Chain frowned in annoyance.
“Oh, come on! Who are you to tell him what to do?” the man complained. “Plus, I bought it for him — I don’t want the drink to go to waste.”
He looked at Feng Xin smugly as Mu Qing glanced over at the strawberry margarita like a moth drawn to a flame. He didn’t even want to guess how many he drank when Feng Xin hadn’t been looking.
The smug asshole would not win this argument; Feng Xin had already decided that.
“I’m his husband, dickweed.” Feng Xin grabbed Mu Qing’s left hand and held it up, showing off the ring still sitting securely on his third finger — the one supposedly connected to the heart. Feng Xin’s gold band shone in the lights above the bar from the angle. “But if you just don’t want the damn thing to go to waste, fine.”
Feng Xin draped an arm around Mu Qing and brought the red-hued beverage up to his mouth, wrapping his lips around the straw before he drank half of it in one big pull. Defiantly. And boy, the look on the motherf*cker’s face was priceless.
…
Why had he f*cking done that?
Feng Xin didn’t know if he understood himself. Cutting people off had never been a problem. But he’d never done it quite this way before. He never claimed he had a f*cking husband before either.
(A gender-neutral spouse, a partner, his significant other — sure, but never a husband.)
He wasn’t gay.
He never found any guys, other than maybe Xie Lian, attractive. Maybe. There were, potentially, a few others, but it was more of an acknowledgment than an attraction.
Then there was this pretty f*cker.
Mu Qing.
No.
Nope.
Feng Xin only stepped in to ensure Mu Qing didn’t get over-served. He didn’t want Paradise Manor to catch a case. He didn’t want to be responsible for something happening to this random (pretty) man. As that thought crossed his mind, Feng Xin knew that much was true… even if some of the other rationalizations swirling and compensating in his mind for his own thoughts were full of sh*t.
The fact of the matter happened to be that Feng Xin was now done for the night. He’d never be allowed back behind the bar; that was the number one rule. He didn’t really regret it. He hadn’t hesitated to do it because… well, f*ck, he couldn’t explain it. It kept Mu Qing from reaching the point of obliteration. That seemed like a win.
“Oh… wow… I’m sorry,” Gold Chain simpered.
He put his hands in the air as he backed away. Clearly, he didn’t want any part of fighting over Feng Xin’s ‘husband’. He tucked tail and skittered back to his buddies, all of whom snickered at the exchange. Feng Xin didn’t feel one iota of pity for the guy. He had eyes. He could see the state Mu Qing was in.
f*ck him, even if he backed off pathetically easy.
“You’re not my husband…” Mu Qing finally responded. He rolled the words around on his tongue with his eyes narrowed. Was that f*cking suspicion? Or anger?
Feng Xin sighed, “Yeah, I f*cking know, but you’ve had enough. You’re officially cut off.”
“You can’t tell me what to do!” he snapped back.
He reached for the drink in Feng Xin’s hand, and he turned it out of reach before sucking the rest down.
Instant regret. f*ck. Brainfreeze.
Mu Qing laughed, “You drank too fast — serves you f*cking right, asshole.”
Then the sh*thead had the nerve to turn up his nose as he crossed his arms. He was still leaning on Feng Xin. Yeah, he was beyond done. Feng Xin couldn’t, in good conscience, let him continue to stick around this place. He couldn’t let him drink any more either. It was time to put the poor guy in a cab and send him back to whatever accommodations he made.
Feng Xin’s eye still twitched from the brain freeze.
“Yeah, yeah, so f*cking funny,” he groused, and his brow furrowed before the glass clinked down on the bar. “C’mon, let’s get you up and out of here. You could use some fresh air.”
“It is stuffy,” the inebriated man admitted.
He probably would take offense at the description that he pouted, but he sure as f*ck did. Feng Xin tried not to smile at the look.
“Where are you staying?” Feng Xin asked.
It was better to try than not, even if something had happened. Mu Qing still had to get the f*ck out of here and go back home at some point. And whether it was the gods blessing him or something else altogether, Mu Qing gave him the name of a hotel. Feng Xin wasn’t going to question how easy that had been. He simply ordered the Uber.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, gonna get him in a f*cking cab,” Feng Xin called the warning out to He Xuan, who appeared to be denying another patron his next drink. Their eyes met and the other man nodded his acknowledgement.
Getting Mu Qing off of the stool proved to be a task. The other man’s arms wound up around him as he damn near toppled the thing over. Then, once he realized what he did, he popped upright, teetering as if he were on the deck of a boat rather than the solid floor of a dance club.
“I’m fine!” he announced, petulantly.
“Sure you are, but I’m not. I’ve got this f*cking thing where I can’t help but worry about people, and you sat in my section tonight. So now I’ve gotta make sure you get your ass back to your hotel,” Feng Xin explained even as he moved to put an arm around Mu Qing’s shoulders. “Humor me. Please?”
Mu Qing huffed, “I don’t owe you anything.”
“Yeah, I f*cking know. I did say please, though,” he tried, pulling reasons out of his ass for the pretty drunk man, “and you did like the drinks I f*cking made you.”
“They were really good,” he admitted quietly. He sighed. “Fine. But only because I don’t wanna hear any more of your stupid… reasons.”
Finding the right words took Mu Qing a moment, and there was something endearing about it. Either way, Feng Xin wasted no time in guiding Mu Qing through the throng of people and toward the entrance. When they came to the door, he nodded at Yin Yu.
“I’ll head back in a f*cking minute, just taking care of him. He’s had a few too many—”
“Or not enough,” Mu Qing barbed back, cutting Feng Xin off.
Yin Yu merely nodded knowingly, and Feng Xin rolled his eyes as he continued onward toward the curb. The fresh air felt f*cking nice in contrast to the humidity of the club as the breeze wafted over his skin.
Mu Qing, apparently, liked the feeling too because he gave a little sigh as he leaned into Feng Xin’s shoulder.
“Air’s better, right?” Feng Xin prodded.
“Shut up,” came as the answer.
Feng Xin chuckled. Even with cotton stuffed in his head from all of the booze he poured down his throat tonight, Mu Qing didn’t miss a beat. He hadn’t quite been at this level of energy when his night at the bar began. Feng Xin had a feeling the guy had sh*t on his mind. He just didn’t happen to be feeling that sh*t right about now.
However many margaritas would do that to a guy — especially with the recipe Shi Qingxuan came up with. They never skimped on the tequila. Hence, cutting people off after a certain point, no matter the profit margin.
A mere moment later, the Uber pulled up. Feng Xin confirmed the destination and assisted Mu Qing into the back of the car. It wasn’t an easy task.
“Hey, whatever was on your f*cking mind tonight, I’m sure it’ll be f*cking fine. Safe trip back to your hotel. Hopefully, Paradise Manor didn’t treat you too f*cking bad, hm?” Feng Xin offered, albeit awkwardly, before he applied a bit of pressure on the door and the f*cker clicked close, sealing the drunk man in the back.
Good deed done.
With that, Feng Xin made his way back into the club. He beelined for the bar where He Xuan seemed to be in the process of passing out about a dozen beers to parched partiers. The busiest part of the night had mostly passed. He Xuan, and further down the bar Shi Qingxuan, seemed to have things under control.
They could always call Hua Cheng out of his office to pitch in.
“I’m done for the night,” Feng Xin called out, raising his voice just a bit over the crowd chatting to his left. He Xuan’s eyebrow quirked. “I had a drink to stop the guy that was downing the strawberry margaritas in my section. I refilled the well earlier; you should be f*cking good.”
The other bartender nodded. Feng Xin didn’t even sense any annoyance. He’d take it. The reaction was better than some of his usual f*cking attitude.
Feng Xin made quick work of grabbing his sh*t from the back (primarily his jacket), clocked out, and then beat feet out of the f*cking club. He had no idea what the f*ck he would do with the rest of his night. He was so used to his shifts lasting well into the early hours of the morning, he doubted he would be able to sleep. Maybe he’d go work out? Or maybe he’d put on a f*cking movie or some sh*t — he hadn’t seen one in a while, and he had plenty to catch up on that he’d been meaning to see.
He’d been f*cking… processing. Yeah, that was what he would call everything that happened since the separation. He’d been processing his divorce—
What in the absolute f*ck?
Feng Xin froze, his eyes glued down the street. He recognized that form! Mu Qing staggered down the sidewalk like a man with a f*cking mission. He hadn’t made it all that far yet, but that motherf*cker had been put in an Uber — an Uber he had clearly gotten out of. Feng Xin’s left eye twitched.
His body moved before he could even register what the hell he should do.
“HEY!” he cried out down the sidewalk to the zig-zagging form. “Hold up right f*cking there!”
Mu Qing half peered over his shoulder — unsuccessfully. His form listed from the momentum of his turn, and he stumbled again. The movement forced him to catch himself on the building to his right, pressing into the outer wall to keep from throwing his pretty ass to the damn concrete. It was a wonder he hadn’t hurt himself.
What the hell was he thinking?
Unlike Mu Qing, Feng Xin had not drunk to the point of inebriation. He was in full control of all of his faculties. He crossed the distance in both a straight line and with purpose, not hindered in the least by his own body or balance. Oh, the wonders of sobriety! And before he could think not to, Feng Xin reached out to grab onto Mu Qing’s elbow to steady him from another full-body stagger — or worse.
“What do you want?” Mu Qing asked as he jerked his elbow back, wobbled, and reached for the building again.
Feng Xin grabbed his elbow. Again.
“What the f*ck are you doing? I put you in a goddamn Uber!” Feng Xin frowned at the other man who seemed to be staring at him in defiance now. “Why the hell did you get out?”
“I’m not going back there!” Mu Qing snapped.
“Well, why the f*ck not?” Feng Xin found himself asking, despite the fact this was not his business. Mu Qing and he had no connection. Yet here he stood holding the other man up so he didn’t fall flat on his face.
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Mu Qing snarled as he puffed up. His body straightened, and he tried to rise to his full height. His palm found the wall behind him, though, as he realized how unsteady he felt on his feet. At least, he was able to realize that much. “You’re not my real husband. I don’t owe you anything.”
“No sh*t,” he agreed with the drunk man. “I only said that to get that guy to back off and not fight me on giving you another f*cking drink.”
“Why?” Mu Qing demanded with a frown.
“I don’t over-serve people. You’ve already had more than enough booze,” Feng Xin explained, and with his free hand, he gestured to Mu Qing. “I mean look at you. You can barely f*cking stand upright, let alone walk anywhere. You should have just—”
“I’m not going back to that f*cking hotel!” Mu Qing shrieked.
Feng Xin’s hand came up in a placating gesture, palm showing. “Okay, okay — Jesus f*ck. You don’t have to do anything. I’m not here to try and force you or anything. But it’s not safe for you to take off walking like this either, damn it.”
“What do you care?” Mu Qing scoffed, turning his gaze away as his hair fell forward from the ponytail he pulled it into, obscuring his vision and tickling the skin on his face. His hair had seen better days. He huffed a breath of air to get the black strands out of the way as he spoke, “You got your tips, I don’t mean anything to you.”
“You don’t have to be someone important for me to care that you’re safe,” he answered.
Mu Qing turned to look at him with something akin to confusion, but those squinted eyes held more complicated emotions beyond that. Pain. Anger. Hurt. Not to mention the tears pooling there.
“Just leave me alone and go away,” Mu Qing demanded quietly.
“No,” Feng Xin responded without hesitation. “You can even f*cking think straight, so we’re not doing that. And, look, I don’t know what’s going on, and why you don’t want to go back to your hotel—”
“I don’t want to see him!” Mu Qing’s voice, despite the vehemence, waivered.
Feng Xin stared at the pretty, drunken man as he attempted to harden his face and turned it to face the building. He lifted his shoulder in an attempt to rub at his cheek, trying to wipe away the tears finally escaping in droplets from long lashes down his cheeks. It didn’t get the job done, which led the other man to release the wall and bring his hand up to make quick work of the evidence of his emotional state.
Swipe once. Swipe twice. He wobbled, full body, as he erased the offending tears.
“Your husband?” Feng Xin asked, and though he kept his voice soft, he knew it was a shade gruffer than was comforting.
Still, Mu Qing nodded. “I’m not going back to that hotel room. You can’t make me do it.”
The statement hadn’t needed repeating, but Feng Xin wouldn’t point that out. “Okay, so we’re not sending you back to your f*cking hotel, but you can’t take off walking down the f*cking street. Did you even know where you were going? Or where you are?”
Mu Qing glared. There was a long beat. He seemed to be considering something. But after a pregnant moment he answered, “No.”
Feng Xin bayed out a laugh. Loud and booming. Just like they always were. It was just… cute. And ridiculous, honestly, that he had made such a big deal out of a simple no. “See, that’s why you can’t take off f*cking walking. You’ll get your ass lost, and who the f*ck knows where you’d wind up.”
“I have a great sense of direction,” Mu Qing argued.
“Maybe when you’re not drunk off your ass,” Feng Xin said.
“I’m not that drunk!” he ground out.
Feng Xin pointedly looked down at the elbow in his grasp. Mu Qing’s gaze followed — and it was like he’d been encompassed in molasses, the movement slow and delayed. Feng Xin’s gaze slid over to the palm Mu Qing still had planted on the wall. Mu Qing repeated the whole routine (slower if that was even possible) and then sputtered as he jerked his hand away from the wall in incredulous offense as he caterwauled out, “Shut up!”
“I didn’t even f*cking say anything,” Feng Xin chuckled.
“Your silence spoke volumes!” Mu Qing wobbled again as he turned and jabbed a pointer finger at Feng Xin’s chest.
Feng Xin reached out to catch Mu Qing before he fell face-first into his chest. He smelled nice up close like this. He had no clue what the f*cking scent was, but it was pleasing. Mu Qing looked down at his chest and then up at his face, eye-to-eye, and his face contorted in affront as he moved to step back. Feng Xin let him but kept one steadying hand on his elbow.
“You’re drunk enough, how’s that?” he tried to compromise with the inebriated man.
“I don’t normally drink,” Mu Qing admitted with a frown.
“Good to know,” Feng Xin replied.
It was really f*cking telling that whatever happened between Mu Qing and his husband had been bad enough he not only went out and got plastered, but he didn’t want to go back to the hotel. Feng Xin knew he shouldn’t speculate, but given the pain (and tears), he guessed the offense had been pretty f*cking bad.
(Feng Xin couldn’t figure out for the life of him why the hell the man’s husband would do something to f*ck up his marriage this badly. Mu Qing was hot. Then again, Feng Xin took marriage seriously. Maybe he was just built differently.
But that wasn’t important.)
…
(Double side note — it wasn’t weird he realized Mu Qing was hot. That was… just an observation. Totally normal.)
Either way, Feng Xin couldn’t leave Mu Qing alone — or let him take off. Not in good conscience. That meant he needed to help him. He was the one who noticed his state of intoxication; he served him. And he was the one standing here. He didn’t know who else to call.
Maybe if he helped Mu Qing sober up a little bit, the pretty boy would tell him who the f*ck to contact? Mu Qing might be able to think of someone who could come get him, outside of the husband he supposedly did not want to see, and then he wouldn’t have to be alone.
“How about we get some food and water in you, hm?” Feng Xin offered.
Mu Qing peered at him, as he fixed his hair (making it more presentable) with one hand, interest piqued. “What kind of food?”
“There’s this great food truck that parks around the corner.” Feng Xin gestured behind them to the opposite corner from the direction Mu Qing had been headed. “They’ve got a variety of sh*t. Korean tacos, kung pao pitas, sushi burritos, tandoori chicken sliders, and a bunch of other sh*t.”
Mu Qing stared at him like he hung the moon. It was sort of a nice f*cking feeling, being on the receiving end of that look. Feng Xin found himself smiling back at the drunken man.
“Korean tacos. You had me at Korean tacos,” Mu Qing mumbled, already moving to start wobbling in the direction Feng Xin pointed out.
Feng Xin stuck with him, along for the ride, as he began to march with a mission toward the food. At least this way Mu Qing would not be wandering in a random ass direction. He could get him to sit down, and he could start to sober up a bit. Water and food would f*cking help.
In an effort to keep Mu Qing from tripping, stumbling, or making any other variation of mess, Feng Xin deposited him at one of the nearby picnic tables. Only once the other man had been settled safely did Feng Xin move to order Mu Qing’s Korean tacos. He grabbed himself the tandoori burger. The night was still early enough that people hadn’t rushed out of the club starving yet, but Feng Xin wouldn’t say it was dead either.
Mu Qing hadn’t faded in the time Feng Xin grabbed their food. He sat at the picnic table with his phone in hand — though the screen wasn’t lit up. He looked like hell; a multitude of thoughts clearly raced through that tequila-soaked brain. Feng Xin sat the tacos in front of his temporary companion.
“Quit thinking and start f*cking eating,” he ordered.
“Don’t tell me what to do, asshole,” Mu Qing barbed back even as he reached for the first taco.
The two ate in silence. Not once did the phone, settled right next to Mu Qing’s water, buzz or light up from a notification or even an accidental bump. He had definitely turned the device off. Not only did he want to avoid his husband in person, but it seemed like he didn’t want to hear from the man via text or phone call either. Feng Xin hoped there would be someone Mu Qing could call to take him somewhere; he couldn’t stay out wandering drunk all f*cking night. Feng Xin knew himself — he’d feel terrible if he found out anything happened to the other man.
So, for now, he settled in to keep the other man company.
That didn’t mean he could stop the curiosity from bubbling up. What the hell had the other man’s husband done? Mu Qing would probably feel better if he talked about it. That thought was followed quickly by the realization that his own curiosity was getting the better of him. He couldn’t ask him to share. It wouldn’t be right unless the other man freely offered.
“You’re married?” Mu Qing’s voice broke through Feng Xin’s thoughts as he chomped down another bite of his burger, almost finished.
His gaze shifted down to the ring on his hand. Oh. That was… somewhat difficult to explain. And yet, he spoke solemnly, “Divorced. I just haven’t taken the f*cking thing off yet.”
“Oh… why’d you get divorced?” Mu Qing asked the question quietly.
“She wasn’t happy anymore,” Feng Xin shrugged.
Mu Qing took a shaky breath. Feng Xin wondered if that was the case for this guy. Was his situation really just that he was unhappy with his marriage? Jian Lan had been. She’d been unhappy. Feng Xin didn’t think he did anything particularly egregious, though maybe that was a skewed perspective. It didn’t really matter given they weren’t married anymore. He held on for so f*cking long, but it got him nowhere. Seeing Mu Qing made him wonder if maybe it hadn’t been as easy as Feng Xin sometimes thought it had been for his ex-wife.
“Did you do something?” Mu Qing asked.
Feng Xin wondered if he was some sort of goddamn mind reader.
“Not that I f*cking know of,” he answered on a sigh, popping the last bite of food into his mouth. “But maybe I was just f*cking clueless.”
They lapsed into silence.
Mu Qing worked on his tacos, interspersing sips of water. Feng Xin couldn’t tell if his perspective was f*cked or accurate, but Mu Qing seemed to be swaying and shifting less. Good, soaking up the f*cking booze was working. At least to a degree.
But the question, Jian Lan, marriage, divorce — it all swirled in Feng Xin’s head as he thought about it.
Why had Jian Lan been unhappy? Why was he divorced and f*cking sad? Why wasn’t he still in his marriage for the goddamn long haul?
It felt like the answer should be much more obvious, considering everything he wanted had been ripped away. But it wasn’t. Feng Xin polished off his entire bottle of water as he considered the subject.
“I’m clingy,” Feng Xin announced, apropos of nothing.
Mu Qing froze and stared at him with his lips on the taco. f*ck, he was adorable. The realization he wanted to lick some of the sauce off the corner of the other man’s mouth was like being hit by a goddamn Mack truck.
Holy sh*t.
He felt attraction toward the man across from him. It was wrong. It was sh*tty — Mu Qing was married. But he was f*cking attracted to him nonetheless. That was a part of why he wanted to answer his stupid f*cking question. He wanted to give him something… and maybe it would get him some answers back.
God, he was selfish, and yet he still found he didn’t want to f*cking shut up.
“And I didn’t provide in the way she f*cking wanted, I guess. She wanted better,” he continued his explanation — his guesses — for why his wife had left him. “Plus, she hated my best friend.”
“Is your best friend an asshole?” Mu Qing formed the words carefully after chewing and swallowing.
Feng Xin pulled a napkin out of the pile and slid it across the table wordlessly. Mu Qing blinked in surprise and nodded his thanks. It took a moment before Feng Xin actually remembered to respond.
“No, he’s the f*cking sweetest, nicest guy — unless you piss him off by talking sh*t about someone he loves.” Feng Xin shrugged. “I never got why she didn’t f*cking like him.”
“Maybe she thought you were in love with him?” Mu Qing guessed before he popped the last bite of his taco into his mouth.
Feng Xin snorted, “If she thought that, she was being f*cking stupid.”
“Well, you sure talk about him like he’s God’s gift to humanity or something,” the other man muttered.
“He’s great — what can I say? But he’s like my brother. We’ve known one another since we were kids.”
He didn’t know why he wanted Mu Qing to know there was absolutely nothing romantic between him and Xie Lian. Sure, Mu Qing was attractive. Feng Xin had an attraction, but that didn’t mean he cared what the other man thought. Right?
f*ck.
Maybe Jian Lan had been jealous. Feng Xin did spend a lot of time with Xie Lian. He did as much as he could for him whenever he asked. But if that was the case… well, f*ck. He didn’t even know what he would make of the idea that his entire marriage dissolved over a false assumption. It wasn’t like he could find out if that was the case either. She didn’t want to talk to him anymore.
And, in this moment, maybe it was better he didn’t f*cking know the truth? After all, what would he do if he found out she had been jealous — that she decided to leave him because of Xie Lian? He’d be pissed. It also wouldn’t change jack sh*t.
He loved them both. He shouldn’t have to pick between them. They should have both been able to be a part of his life without it being a problem.
“Did you try to work it out?” Mu Qing startled Feng Xin from his thoughts.
“She didn’t give me the f*cking option,” he answered heavily, “but I would’ve.”
The drunken man, though he seemed to have sobered up to a degree, stared at him anew. His eyes shone with unshed tears. The emotion kicked into gear again. Feng Xin had a feeling he needed to talk, but he didn’t—
“It doesn’t always help. Trying to work it out. Therapy. Whatever.” Mu Qing’s tone developed a biting edge to it as he stared down at his fingers. His wedding ring. “Sometimes you can do whatever someone wants you to do, change, and it doesn’t make a f*cking difference. If someone wants to leave or check out, they just will.”
Ouch.
“You sound like you’re talking from f*cking experience,” Feng Xin took the risk as he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck; his eyes never left Mu Qing.
“There’s a reason that I don’t want to go back to that damn hotel.”
Mu Qing’s lips grew thin. Feng Xin watched as the other man reached for his water. He uncapped the plastic bottle, a crackle accompanying his squeeze, and gulped down several mouthfuls. Somehow, he was still beautiful — even tense all over and unhappy. There was something about him. Man, Feng Xin did not know what to do with that train of thought. Pain etched into Mu Qing’s face. He exuded it with his every microexpression. His misery became more and more obvious by the moment.
“So, which is it?” Feng Xin asked, and he refused to wither under the look shot in his direction. “Does he wanna leave? Check out? Or does he just want you to make changes?”
“That’s none of your business!” The words should have been biting. He snapped them out with the appropriate speed, but the tone behind them felt lackluster.
Feng Xin merely stared at the man across from him, taking in how the lights of the food truck park made his hair shine. The shadows that played across his nose almost made him want to reach out and turn Mu Qing’s head just a bit to the right. Then, he’d be able to see that jade skin unblemished by the environment.
He didn’t, of course.
“He’s… he checked out,” Mu Qing whispered to the table, or maybe the bottle because he still had the plastic cylinder squeezed in his hand.
Feng Xin frowned, nose wrinkling at the idea of checking out on someone like Mu Qing. No, he did not know this man. Even without knowing the customer turned drunken ward, he could see the fight in him. There was sass. He wasn’t even about to get started on the attitude. Then there was the fact that Mu Qing damn near took his breath away with his beauty.
f*ck. Was it weird to think of a man as beautiful? Maybe.
But he did think it.
“How the f*ck do you know?” Feng Xin propped an elbow on the table and leaned on his hand, giving his full attention.
Mu Qing scowled at him.
“What? It’s a valid question,” he pointed out, brows pulling up as he, again, did not back down from the negative reaction to his search for information.
“Oh my God, I can’t… you don’t… I won’t…”
Mu Qing’s inebriation showed itself again. He hadn’t quite made his way back around to fully sober. He verbally tripped over himself, brows furrowed, as he seemed to torture himself with the idea he couldn’t share whatever tipped him off to believing his husband had checked out. And yet… he clearly wanted to.
“Look, you don’t even f*cking know me, and you’ll probably never see me again, but I’m listening. I’ve got time. You can tell me—” Feng Xin started in an attempt to aid Mu Qing’s dilemma.
Only to be promptly interrupted by him, “He was watching soccer!”
“Huh?” Feng Xin responded intelligently.
Mu Qing’s cheeks began to grow pink all over again. He had a feeling they would be warm to the touch, and Feng Xin found himself literally fighting the urge to reach across the table. It would be wrong. He was not that kind of person. He never would be. He refused.
“My husband. He was watching soccer,” Mu Qing repeated. Feng Xin continued to stare at the other man cluelessly as he chewed on the words, either afraid or trying to masticate whatever was on the tip of his tongue into the perfect, proper way to put whatever the f*ck it was out into the world. It was not a bad watch. “While w-we were… busy.”
“Busy?” Feng Xin asked, head tilting.
“Jesus Christ!” Mu Qing yowled. “He was watching soccer while we were being… intimate!”
Feng Xin stared at Mu Qing. Several other patrons did as well, causing the other man to wither slightly post-vehemence. The bartender’s own cheeks felt hot now and an understanding pucker pulled at his lips. What a f*cking jackass! Now Mu Qing’s cheeks turned a true red, and his brows furrowed in a way that drew the bartender’s eye. He found he couldn’t even consider pulling his gaze away from him.
How in the hell could someone get distracted during sex to begin with? Let alone sex with the man sitting opposite him, especially after seeing all the little looks and expressions he pulled? Not to mention how impressive he looked physically. What kind of dumbass had he married?
“Wow, what a piece of sh*t,” Feng Xin settled on.
Mu Qing blinked in surprise.
“What?” he found himself asking the man who seemed to have been knocked on his ass by a simple statement — figuratively not literally.
“Oh, come on,” Mu Qing huffed. “You don’t have to put on an act, go on and say it!”
“Say… what?” Feng Xin lifted his head and both elbows found the table as he leaned forward, brow knitted in confusion.
“That I’m a drama queen,” Mu Qing spat the words out as if they were offensive to his entire being. “And that I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Plenty of people check out when getting intimate.”
Feng Xin chuffed a small laugh out; it earned him a glare.
“I’m not f*cking laughing because I think you’re a drama queen,” he promised.
“Bullsh*t!” came the counter.
“I swear to f*cking God, I’m not.” He held up his right hand, as if he were about to place it on a Bible or some sh*t. “It’s just you’re f*cking cute — the way that you’re dancing around saying sex or f*cking.”
Mu Qing looked around, as if in search of more mockery. Nobody was paying them any mind anymore. They lost interest no sooner than Mu Qing grabbed it.
“Shut up,” was his intelligent response.
Feng Xin had a feeling he got off easy there. There could have been a number of alternate responses — some of which wouldn’t have felt nice — and most of them probably deserved considering Mu Qing was married. Even if unhappily so.
“No,” Feng Xin volleyed back, a teasing note coloring his voice. “I mean it. And I f*cking mean it when I say you’re not being a goddamn drama queen. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with your husband, but you’re not overreacting. You’re not being anything other than rightfully pissed off. People don’t check out of sex if they’re into it or if they care about the person they’re with. That’d f*cking upset a lot of people.”
It wasn’t the most eloquent response. Xie Lian might have been able to do much better than Feng Xin had, but Mu Qing seemed to soften. Or maybe that was wishful thinking? Feng Xin hoped his words helped, though.
“What a way with words,” Mu Qing grumbled, but there was a distinct lack of teeth to his words.
Goal accomplished. Feng Xin smiled to himself. He wasn’t the sort of guy who could see someone in pain and not try to do something. It had very little to do with how attracted he was to the other man (a whole other thing to deal with entirely), and everything to do with Mu Qing needing validation. Feng Xin was happy to give it in this instance.
“Oh, f*ck off — you get what I mean,” he pointed out as he grinned at the other man. “And don’t f*cking bite my head off for this…”
Mu Qing narrowed his eyes. “No promises.”
“Fine, f*cking fair or whatever. I’m gonna say it anyway,” Feng Xin laughed, but found he couldn’t stop the words pouring out of his mouth. He watched the other man malinger in pain all f*cking evening. He needed to make sure Mu Qing understood his reaction was f*cking justified. “Here it goes — you’re too f*cking hot, too interesting, and way too goddamn… I dunno spicy or saucy, take your pick, for anyone to get bored or tune you out in the middle of sex.”
“Spicy or saucy?” he echoed, his tone doubtful.
But his face didn’t match his tone. His cheeks reddened again. Their eyes connected for just the kiss of a moment, and Mu Qing jerked his gaze away quickly, turning his head to the right. The pesky f*cking shadow was gone, and now Feng Xin could see that smooth, jade skin unmarred. Damn, he really was too f*cking alluring to take for granted.
His husband was a f*cking idiot.
Holy sh*t.
Ho-ly f*cking sh*t.
Feng Xin froze.
He wasn’t just noting a fleeting attraction. A flimsy flight of bullsh*t because he was depressed and restless. He wasn’t pitying Mu Qing. The full weight of the thoughts and reactions from the night floored him — a ton of bricks figuratively landing on his back to pin him down in the newfound feelings.
Feng Xin always told everyone he was straight; he always thought he was straight.
But looking at Mu Qing — seeing the way the soft orange glow of the streetlamp hit his complexion — he genuinely felt the heat bubble beneath the skin. His heart raced. The urge to get closer, to help, to insert himself though clearly just his nature, also came from that attraction. Interest.
“What?” Mu Qing turned his head, changing his view, to stare at Feng Xin with worry. “What are you staring at? Are you waiting for something so you can laugh in my face—?”
“f*ck no!” he responded immediately. Before he could think to curb the movement, his hand shot across the table and landed over Mu Qing’s forearm in a squeeze. “You just… I mean, f*ck, Mu Qing… you gave me a new perspective on some sh*t, that’s all.”
“About what?” he responded dubiously.
He looked down at the hand. Then at Feng Xin. Their eyes remained locked, as if magnetized.
“Being divorced for one,” Feng Xin offered. “I was f*cking miserable being divorced. I’ve been a sadsack over the entire f*cking thing and moping. My ex-wife didn’t even stick around to make me miserable or to duke any of it out. She didn’t take the time to make me feel like sh*t; she was just done. There was no fighting, no f*cking dumping of wrongs… I got f*ckall in terms of closure or knowing what the f*ck led her to leaving. No offense.”
“Tons taken,” Mu Qing barbed, but he didn’t stomp off; he remained in his seat, clearly waiting.
“I don’t mean to rub it in and sh*t, or to make your situation sound worse or whatever—”
“Get to the point,” Mu Qing interrupted Feng Xin, who found he actually appreciated it.
“You made me less sad. And… I guess I realized there are other f*cking fish in the sea or whatever,” he finished, lamely.
Mu Qing stared at Feng Xin like he had grown another head, but there was that telltale blush again. Maybe his words weren’t totally terrible.
“I made you realize that?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah, I mean, I haven’t been attracted to anybody since her until you,” came the admission.
“I’m married,” Mu Qing said automatically.
“I know, and I’m not even trying to f*cking hit on you, I swear to God!” Both of Feng Xin’s hands came up, as if to show his innocence. “I’m just saying… you f*cking did that for me. I’m not expecting sh*t. I’m just some weird f*cking bartender that bought you tacos to sober you up. I get that.”
“They were good tacos,” his companion noted, making Feng Xin smile.
“All I’m saying is that you seem great to me. You deserve better,” he declared.
Mu Qing did not seem so certain. “Maybe.”
“You f*cking do. I wouldn’t watch soccer if I were inside you,” Feng Xin said before he realized what was coming out of his mouth.
“Oh my God!”
Mu Qing malfunctioned as he looked around the table. What he was looking for, Feng Xin had no f*cking clue. Not until the other man picked up his bottle cap and threw it at Feng Xin, hitting him square in the chest. A laugh bubbled up and a smile spread wide across Feng Xin’s face. Mu Qing followed suit, his face as bright as a tomato.
“I don’t know your husband, Mu Qing,” Feng Xin said once his laughter tapered off, “but he should f*cking do better. You should let him f*cking know that.”
Mu Qing grew quiet.
Feng Xin wondered if he said something wrong.
“I’m not going to nag him,” the man finally said, his tone bitter.
“I dunno, nagging can be sexy—”
“Stop,” Mu Qing said.
Feng Xin sobered instantly. “Sorry,” he apologized. He crossed his arms in front of himself on the table as he leaned forward, staring up at his companion. “But nagging is a part of marriage, especially if one half isn’t f*cking listening.”
“Oh?” Mu Qing mocked. “You had to nag then?”
“No, I was the one getting f*cking nagged at,” Feng Xin admitted, “but I fixed it when she did nag about sh*t because it meant she didn’t like it. Or she wanted something different. I doubt that you’re just bitching to bitch… mostly.”
Mu Qing looked conflicted. “I don’t want to nag at him anymore.”
“Why?” Feng Xin asked.
“He doesn’t want to change,” Mu Qing shot back bitterly. His eyes narrowed into a glare — as if Feng Xin were his husband in this moment. “But he doesn’t want me to nag either. And our therapist agreed that I should stop.”
“Sounds like a sh*tty therapist to me,” Feng Xin said.
Mu Qing stared at him, eyes swimming with unshed tears all over again. Feng Xin felt the guilt punch him in the gut. Had he said the wrong thing?
“Yeah… yeah he is,” Mu Qing agreed with a sardonic, watery laugh. “I hate him.”
“The therapist or your husband?” Feng Xin asked, unsure if he was joking.
“The therapist,” Mu Qing hissed, but a sniffle followed. He took the napkin that Feng Xin offered with a scowl even as he blotted at his face. “And maybe Zhu An too.”
“You should do something about that,” Feng Xin offered.
“I should do something about it,” Mu Qing agreed.
They sat there, watching one another, for a time. Feng Xin wasn’t sure how long the two remained, but he knew he didn’t want to leave Mu Qing to deal with the sh*t in his head, drunk, and without someone to help. He probably said way too f*cking much, but… even if it was inappropriate, he had no regrets. His own chest felt lighter than it had in months, a tension evaporating off of his shoulders as he admired the beauty of the man across from him. He hoped he helped Mu Qing even a fraction of what it felt the man managed to help him — even unintentionally. Maybe it could be a step in the right direction for the both of them.
He was caught up in his thoughts — so much so that he realized belatedly that Mu Qing picked up his phone.
“What’re you doing?” Feng Xin asked curiously.
“Gonna check my phone.”
Mu Qing caught his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment as he held the smartphone between both hands in contemplation. He stared at the blank screen. For someone who decided on their next course of action, he looked hesitant. Feng Xin figured he wouldn’t appreciate that assessment.
Still, he couldn’t help himself as he pointed at the power button, “You gotta push—”
“I know, shut up!” Mu Qing snapped. He narrowed his eyes, lip plump and pink from where he worried at it. “I just know he’s blown my phone up. I’m working up to it.”
“Okay, okay,” Feng Xin placated, holding up his hands in a gesture to wave it off.
Silence descended as Mu Qing took several more minutes. Only then did he, finally, squeeze the phone and turn it back on. A moment later, before Mu Qing even unlocked the device, it began to chirp and ding with various notifications. The two stared as it kept going.
And going.
Eventually, the notification sounds stopped. Mu Qing stared at the screen for a lingering moment before he unlocked the device. Mu Qing tapped on the screen. Feng Xin felt like he shouldn’t be watching this, and yet Mu Qing didn’t ask for privacy. He leaned forward, huddling over the phone as he chewed on the thumbnail on his left hand.
The sharp, staccato inhale caused Feng Xin to react on autopilot — he reached across the picnic table again and squeezed the other man’s forearm. They remained like that for a little while. Mu Qing scrolled through the various messages and apps without replying, only taking it all in. Feng Xin could only tell because there was no telltale tap tap on the screen. A few errant tears fell, but Mu Qing swiped them away without a word.
Feng Xin had no idea how many messages his husband sent him, but it seemed significant; he had been at the club for several hours before Feng Xin cut him off. Truth be told, if Jian Lan — before the two wound up where they were — took off, Feng Xin might have done the exact same thing and blown up her phone like some crazy person. He didn’t like that he had something in common with the man that made Mu Qing feel like sh*t. As a husband, he was supposed to take care of him and work on sh*t through with him.
And even though Feng Xin wasn’t a part of their marriage, he chose to believe Mu Qing’s details. He was biased… and he didn’t f*cking care.
“Here,” Mu Qing interrupted Feng Xin’s thoughts suddenly.
He stared dumbly at the phone thrust toward him, held squarely in a soft-looking palm. “...What do you want me to do with it?”
“Put your number in it, dumbass.” Mu Qing rolled his watery eyes, giving an insistent gesture. “If you want to. So I can call you…”
He grew a little less certain with every word before moving to pull the phone back to his own possession. Feng Xin’s hand shot out to grab the device before it could clear his reach. He grinned.
“Can’t wait to f*cking hear from you,” he said pointedly. He hoped he was reading this situation correctly. “Whenever you’re f*cking ready and wanna hang out or go for more tacos — whatever.”
He was pretty sure he was, given the blush dusting Mu Qing’s cheeks. His lips curled into a small smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but he wanted it to. Feng Xin could tell. Maybe if Mu Qing weren’t in a sh*t mood, in a sh*t place, he would have followed through.
It only took a moment to tap the numbers and his name into the contact. Once finished, he peered down at the information screen before tapping the icon for his picture and snapping one. With a grin.
“What are you doing?” Mu Qing hissed out, panic lacing his tone, as his hands both shot out to attempt to snatch back the device.
“Chill the f*ck out!” Feng Xin held the phone out of his reach for a moment in one hand and held the other up in a placating gesture. “I was just taking a picture for the contact, not sending your asshole husband a text or something crazy.”
“Oh…” he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Even if you wind up not remembering sh*t after how much you drank, hopefully, the damn picture will get your attention,” Feng Xin teased.
“I’m not that drunk!” Mu Qing growled.
He yanked his phone back the second Feng Xin allowed it to re-enter his range. Mu Qing stared down at the picture. Feng Xin had no idea what was going through his mind, or what he was tapping at his phone for until the device in his own pocket gave off a ping of its own, signifying a text had come through. The bartender pulled the phone from his pocket and saw the banner on the lock screen with an unknown number and a message that simply stated ‘hi’. Feng Xin grinned, stupidly, and lifted an eyebrow as he turned his gaze to Mu Qing
“You really think I would give you a bogus f*cking number?”
“Maybe,” he shrugged noncommittally as he shoved the phone into his pocket.
He gathered up all of the different bits of trash — the plates, the napkins, the empty bottles, leaving nothing behind — and sashayed over to the trash can. Feng Xin stared at the retreating ass stuffed into those tight black slacks. He was f*cking doing that on purpose. He had to be.
The trash gave a distinctive and annoying rustling sound as Mu Qing stuffed it into the public bin. Mu Qing looked back at Feng Xin, still sitting at the picnic table. He wore an odd expression on his face. Feng Xin felt his stomach drop a bit.
Then, just as Feng Xin feared, Mu Qing turned to leave. The bartender popped up automatically.
“Where the f*ck are you going?” he called, already surging forward several steps with worry. “You still need to—”
“I’m going to do something about my situation!” Mu Qing snapped back.
Feng Xin felt his legs lock up. He stopped in his tracks and stared at the pretty boy who had — by pure chance — sat in his section tonight at the bar.
“Oh… sh*t. Good for you,” Feng Xin replied. He forced a half-smile in an attempt to be encouraging. “Well, good luck, babe.”
He probably should have found something more intelligent to say, but everything important had already been said tonight. His life — and Mu Qing’s life, it sounded like — was never going to be the same again. Feng Xin kept his eyes on his still-drunk companion as he walked (a bit straighter than he managed earlier in the night) down the sidewalk.
Mu Qing looked over his shoulder so Feng Xin could see the roll of his eyes, but a softness laced his features. “Yeah, I’m going to handle my sh*t…” he repeated, like he was trying to hype himself up, “and then maybe I’ll call you.”
Feng Xin grinned. “You f*cking better.”
“If I remember,” Mu Qing scoffed.
But that pretty blush tinted his cheeks still even as he slowed to a stop, nearly at the corner, to turn back. Their eyes locked with that magnetic pull again.
“You’ll remember, Pretty Boy,” Feng Xin breathed.
Mu Qing clicked his tongue, but there was that tick at the corner of his mouth again. After a beat, his head sagged forward and his ponytail caught the light in a way that made Feng Xin want to run his fingers through it. Mu Qing took a deep breath with his whole body and turned his back on Feng Xin to disappear around the corner, leaving Feng Xin behind with the remnants of a smile still written on his mouth and a hopeful text message still on his phone.
