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The boy giggled as he and Xue Yang slipped and slid along the icy sidewalk up the hill.
Xingchen. Or something. The bar had been so noisy that it was impossible to hear clearly. A pretty name for a pretty boy—so pretty, in fact, that he’d looked completely out of place in Xue Yang’s regular haunt, like a tourist lost in the wrong part of town in his fluffy white sweater and round metal glasses with thick plus lenses that made his eyes look like Bambi’s. A shot glass sat in front of him, filled with something radioactively pink.
Xue Yang had glanced at the shot, then met the boy’s gaze; he was smiling, teeth white and lips glossy. Xue Yang could practically taste the sugar all the way from where he was standing. The girl in fishnet stockings and Doc Martens who was hitting on him stood no chance, that much was clear. Besides, Xue Yang knew her: she was trouble.
Not that Xue Yang was much better company, but Bambi Eyes didn’t know that, did he?
Now, on the sidewalk, they stopped to kiss in the pale glow of a blinking streetlight. The boy’s mouth was astounding; plump and inviting, with slightly upturned corners. Xue Yang was dying to dip his tongue in. Frozen leaves rustled in the wind sweeping across the street, their sound brittle, like the air of the frosty late November night.
“You’re cute,” Xingchen slurred between kisses. He tasted like raspberries, the distinctive sharp tang of alcohol hiding behind the berry sweetness. He kissed sloppily, his teeth clashing with Xue Yang’s. There was a clumsiness about him, like a boy who had grown too fast, an air of tempting recklessness as he pressed his body flush against Xue Yang’s.
“You are cute.” Xue Yang chased another raspberry kiss. “Way too pretty to sit alone in that shitty bar. What’re you doing here, cutie pie? Nobody comes to this shit town for fun in November.”
The only answer Xue Yang got was Xingchen’s tongue in his mouth. Happily, he succumbed to another spit-wet attack. He was half-hard already—their journey from the bar to here, the outskirts of the city center, had been slowed by a series of increasingly heated make-out sessions on street corners and in passageways—and for a moment, he seriously considered leading the boy to a private spot he knew at the foot of the hill for a quick blowjob.
The thought of that overenthusiastic mouth closing around his dick was driving him insane.
No. Xue Yang collected himself. Bambi Eyes had said he was staying at the hotel, and they were almost there.
The lights of the building shone up on the hill, inviting and warm. What used to be a state prison had been transformed into a high-end hotel—cells renovated into comfortable rooms, decorated with red brick and bar motifs, a luxurious spa downstairs. There was a meeting room named after a former head of the prison next to another venue taking its name from a legendary murderer. Xue Yang knew because he’d worked in construction during the renovation.
After his contract had ended, he’d imagined he would have zero reason to climb up that hill ever again.
“Come,” said Xingchen, pulling Xue Yang along with him. “We’re gonna have so much fun. I like your style. You have the cutest ass I’ve ever seen. Let’s go up and fuck each other’s brains out.”
Until tonight, it seemed.
The hotel lobby looked almost unreal to Xue Yang, like one of those posh downtown restaurants he walked past on his way home from work, or the set of a sappy nineties Christmas movie he’d watched as a kid in the group home’s TV room. Red brick and dark wood paneling, real candles. There was even a Christmas tree next to the reception desk, the red and pink baubles hanging on its branches catching the glow of the twinkling fairy lights.
Xue Yang took in the businessmen and -women small talking on the leather couches, glasses of red wine in hand, and helped himself to a handful of welcome candies from a bowl on the reception desk as they rushed across the lobby hand in hand. While Xingchen was already shoving him into the elevator, he stuck his tongue out at the receptionist and tossed a strawberry bonbon into his mouth; Xingchen’s tongue was down his throat before the doors had even slid closed.
Fourth floor. A soft light filled the room as Xingchen inserted the key card in the slot.
It was a sleek and modern space in gray, black, and gold, with high-set windows with bars still on them. Before he was pushed down onto the bed, Xue Yang registered an open suitcase on the luggage rack—a nice-looking thing, Samsonite-type of shit—and another one, unopened, lying on the floor. A laptop rested on the desk next to a toiletry bag adorned with an expensive-looking logo.
“You’re so hard, baby,” Xingchen purred as he opened the buckle of Xue Yang’s belt. “I think someone here likes me.”
A hand slid down Xue Yang’s jeans, making all thoughts of suitcases, laptops and toiletry bags fly right out of his head.
“Fuck, that feels good,” Xue Yang whined. For once, he’d been lucky. So fucking lucky. The room was nice and warm, the bed soft, and Bambi Eyes seemed more than ready to get freaky. Xue Yang wiggled out of his leather jacket, his fingers finding their way to the zipper of the boy’s cream chinos. “What do you like, honey? Wanna play rough with me?”
“Oh, you’re perfect. I know just the thing.” Xingchen’s eyes had a glassy sheen, slightly out of focus. Xue Yang wondered if he could see anything without his glasses on. Xingchen picked up a piece of candy from the bed where they had fallen from Xue Yang’s hand. He unwrapped it slowly with one hand, the other still down Xue Yang’s jeans, where it had found a rhythm that was as sweet as the strawberry bonbon he popped into his mouth. “And we’ve got all night,” he breathed out as he bent down to kiss the spit-slick candy right into Xue Yang’s mouth.
“God-ah-dammit.” Xue Yang moaned when Xingchen bit his lower lip, hard.
The wet strawberry mouth spread into a sinful smile. “Oh fuck, that sounded good. Just as I imagined. I knew you’d like it with a little bite.”
“Do it again,” Xue Yang said, pulling him down for another kiss.
The boy was a real treat in bed, just as Xue Yang had imagined. He was all sloppy kisses and sharp teeth, in his mouth a treacle tongue that kept teasing, hinting, and suggesting, but never kept its fickle promises.
“Fuck. You’re driving me crazy. Blow me. Just fucking blow me,” Xue Yang begged, but Xingchen just laughed, his mouth red and pornographic, and turned his attention back to sucking Xue Yang’s nipple.
Xue Yang was lying on his back, his dick covered with a glaze of sugary saliva and Xingchen’s tongue dipping teasingly into his belly button, when he heard the whirr and click of the electric lock.
The sound nearly made him jump out of his skin. He bolted upright, heart pounding like a drum.
A man stood in the doorway—obscenely good-looking and so tall he seemed to block the door completely. Across the corridor, a red exit sign glowed above his head like a warning light.
“Who the fuck are you?” Xue Yang spat out, his eyes darting between the exit sign and the barred window, though it was futile: the room used to be a prison cell, escape proof.
The stranger raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?”
“Zichen.” Xingchen sat up, his devastating mouth curving into a smile. “Honey, you're back. This is Xue Yang. I met him in the bar. He’s so cute.”
Honey —so Bambi Eyes had conveniently forgotten to mention he had a boyfriend. It made Xue Yang wonder if there was something else he was hiding, the devious boy with his honey bait mouth.
“Xue Yang, huh?” the man said slowly.
Xue Yang fought the urge to cover himself; fuck if he was going to let the guy get the upper hand.
There was a blank arrogance about the stranger. He was wearing a sleek black wool coat with epaulets on the shoulders. He looked as though he’d brought the night into the room with him. Ice crystals sparkled on the dark fabric as he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. He looked at least thirty-five, while Xue Yang had imagined Xingchen being much closer to his own age—but perhaps he’d been mistaken? A bottle of shock-pink liquor dangled from the man’s hand. Clearly for Xingchen. Of course it was. Right on brand.
He even wore combat boots. Xue Yang nearly snorted. Who’d have guessed Bambi Eyes liked it like that?
“Xue Yang? Baby?” Xingchen’s hand was slowly creeping up Xue Yang’s thigh, a finger drawing a heart-shaped pattern on his skin. When Xue Yang looked up at his face, his cheeks were blotched with red, like strawberry stains. Their eyes met, and Xingchen’s pupils flared, twin supernovas in irises that shimmered purple and brown with flecks of gold. Play with me, they seemed to say.
Play? Hell yeah, Xue Yang was definitely going to play. If nothing else, he’d always been good at being daring. It was like his fucking speciality.
He met the stranger’s dark gaze. Then he wrapped his arms around Xingchen’s neck, pulling him into a careless, wet kiss.
Xingchen let out a delighted little sound, angling his head and opening his mouth, as if to give his boyfriend a teasing flash of tongue.
“Like what you’re seeing?” Xue Yang sneered as they broke the kiss. “Wanna watch your boyfriend fuck me? Come on, Zichen, at least pour us a shot first.”
Several shots later, Xue Yang was on his hands and knees on the bed. Head dizzy and the cloying taste of raspberry in his mouth, he whined and tried to fuck himself onto Xingchen’s fingers.
Song Lan—that was what Xue Yang could call him, he’d said, Zichen was apparently reserved for Bambi Eyes only—lounged in the armchair, nursing a glass of whisky he’d poured himself from the minibar. Show me what you've got, his posture seemed to say as he sat there, one leg draped casually over the other. His expression was impassive, but the way he kept his eyes glued to the scene on the bed gave him away: he was eating it up. Of course he was, the creep. His lips were parted, his big hand loosely wrapped around the glass tumbler.
Xingchen giggled at Xue Yang’s desperate squirming. He was two fingers in, the other hand massaging Xue Yang’s balls, every now and then giving his cock a teasing stroke. Xue Yang tried to focus his gaze on the stitch pattern of the gray bedspread, but it was hard with the way the bed kept lurching—or maybe it was the room spinning around and around in a dizzying swirl. How many shots had he had? Three? Four? The scent of strawberry lube filled the air.
At last, Song Lan put down the glass and got up. “Xue Yang, right?” he said, walking up to the bed. “Enjoying yourself?”
He seemed even taller now that he was so close; Xue Yang had to crane his neck to see his face. When he pressed his thumb on Xue Yang’s lower lip, his skin was warm and salty, like caramel popcorn, like the salt of the sea on a sunny day, like that crazy-expensive whisky a guy Xue Yang had once hooked up with had offered him. He had to fight the urge to suck Song Lan’s finger into his mouth for more of that salty tang.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Song Lan continued. The expression on his face told Xue Yang he already knew the answer. “But let me ask you this: what are you looking for here?”
The question was idiotic—what did the man want Xue Yang to say?—but the scoff he was going for didn't quite come out as intended when Xingchen squirted more lube onto his hole and pushed another finger in. The scent of strawberry was overwhelming; Xue Yang felt nauseous with it.
Song Lan looked at him, eyes dark. He was still fully dressed—neat trousers, a leather belt, a black polo-neck sweater, hair tied in a neat top knot. Xue Yang wanted to pull his hair loose and rip the belt off its loops. “Isn’t it obvious?” he snapped, as snottily as he could with three fingers up his ass and his head dizzy with fumes of all things pink and sweet. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing. This isn’t my first rodeo. Besides, your boyfriend here seems more than willing to get freaky.”
Song Lan didn’t say a word, but he looked down at Xue Yang like Xue Yang had just given the wrong answer. Like he was too stupid to understand.
The arrogant asshole. Who the fuck did he think he was, with his combat boots and the chill of the night on his shoulders? Xue Yang glared at the man. “I can take it rough. Don’t you worry about me, Zichen,” he spat out.
Song Lan ignored him. His thumb traveled across Xue Yang’s cheek all the way up to his temple until he was running his hand through Xue Yang’s hair, his big hand coming to cover the back of Xue Yang’s head.
“I don’t think you know what you want at all,” he said, in a voice that could have been mistaken as gentle if Xue Yang didn’t know better; the tone of it sent a trickle of cold down his spine. “I’ve seen guys like you before. You think you’re so tough. You think you want an easy fuck, a quick blow job at the end of the night. A smack on the ass if you’re lucky. I think you have no idea how it could be. No idea at all.”
Song Lan’s grip on his hair grew tighter; Xue Yang’s breath caught in his throat.
“I think he knows. Isn’t that right, baby? You know how it could be. You know precisely what you’re here for,” Xingchen’s sloppy voice interrupted. He pulled his fingers out abruptly to reach for the liquor. Xue Yang shot a quick glance at the bottle on the nightstand. Half-empty already. Wasn’t it just a moment ago that Song Lan walked in the door?
Xue Yang sat back, letting out a hiccup of laughter.
What the fuck was Bambi Eyes talking about?
He imagined them at home, at some sleek modern penthouse with a view over the river. Xingchen playing some stupid video game or lazily fingering himself while Song Lan was at work. Xue Yang tried not to laugh at the thought—Song Lan was just the type to keep his boytoy at home, all dolled up and ready for him.
What a comfortable life it would be: no more pitch black mornings with a six a.m. work shift that didn’t pay shit, no more desperate scrambling to get by—only the mellow gray light of long afternoons with nothing to do but wait for the time to pass, for Song Lan to come home.
That would be nice for a change, Xue Yang thought bitterly.
He pictured them fucking in a minimalist kitchen, the kind of space with marble countertops and abstract art on the wall instead of cupboards because nobody was using it for actual cooking. Song Lan would be in black heels. Xingchen in white lace panties. Xue Yang could see it in his eyes, clear as day. Song Lan would be pulling at the crotch of the panties and holding it aside, Xingchen arching his back to grind against Song Lan. Maybe they would be filming with a phone. Song Lan’s face would be cropped out of the picture; Xingchen would turn the lens on his own face and stick his tongue out to the camera, cheeks pink and tongue wet, and then zoom back where Song Lan’s cock was stretching him wide open.
Was that what Xingchen meant? Was that what he thought Xue Yang wanted?
“Open up, baby. This will make it easier for you. You just need to let it happen.” Xingchen’s voice snapped Xue Yang back on the hotel bed. There was a shot glass in his hand, filled to the brim with pink and tilting dangerously.
Song Lan took the drink from him and brought it to Xue Yang’s lips. His eyes never left Xue Yang’s as Xue Yang tilted his head back and let him pour the liquor in his mouth. Was it a good idea? Probably not. It burned going down, burned like fever, leaving Xue Yang sputtering and coughing.
Let what happen? Xue Yang had no fucking clue what Xingchen talking about.
When he first saw Xingchen at the bar, he thought no one could be so pretty for real. Shiny daydreamer’s eyes under a wispy fringe, that fluffy sweater and glossy pink mouth. He’d just laughed when Xingchen had put his hand on his lap and said he was gorgeous, that they were going to have a good time.
It hadn’t occurred to him at all that there might be something wrong with Xingchen.
He should have known. It was in Xingchen’s eyes, bright yet unseeing. It was in his mouth, in the bitter taste of fever under the sugary glaze. In his reckless body and too-long limbs. It was something Xue Yang couldn’t name but recognized with an absolute certainty.
He’d seen it before. In some of the kids he grew up with. He wouldn’t call them friends—every time he’d made a friend, he’d been transferred to a new foster family, a different group home, whatever.
He’d always thought no one else was as fucked up as him, and maybe that was true.
But also: for a short while in that noisy, crowded bar, Xingchen had felt like someone Xue Yang might get to keep.
“I know what you want. I want it too.” Xingchen poured himself another shot and downed it in one gulp.
The glass hit the table with a resolute thump. It sounded like a starting gun. Here we go.
Xingchen’s hands found their way to the buckle of Song Lan’s belt. Xue Yang’s gaze dropped to his fingers—bony, with nails bitten to the quick. It was only now he noticed that Xingchen was wearing pink nail polish, chipped and torn like he’d been picking at it.
The belt came off the loops.
Xue Yang wanted to laugh at the sound it made—the soft swish sounded just like the whirr of the lock on the door; there was even a little metallic click from the buckle—but what came out was a cry instead when Song Lan pulled him up on his knees, yanked his arms behind his back and swiftly tied the belt around his wrists.
A peculiar shine had come into Xingchen’s eyes. He looked as though he was burning up from the inside. “He’s gonna make it good for you, I promise. And you’ve got me. I’ll be here for you every step of the way.”
From the corner of his eye, Xue Yang could see Song Lan pull the black sweater over his head. He was toned, with a thin line of black hair trailing down his flat stomach. Xue Yang couldn’t tear his eyes away from the bulge in his trousers.
“I wish we could keep you, always. We could put a collar on you. I’d like that. Zichen would too,” Xingchen whispered.
Xue Yang’s stomach lurched. He tried to wriggle his hands, and when he felt the unforgiving leathery knot digging into his wrists, his body flashed hot all over with nauseating shame. Shit. He should have fought it. And a freaking collar? No fucking way. And yet, when Xingchen leaned in for a kiss, he opened his mouth in a rush of need so strong he felt nearly sick with it.
He could taste the alcohol on Xingchen—the berry essence did nothing to hide it. He closed his eyes, the world spinning around him.
“You would be perfect,” Xingchen kept whispering his fevered promises against Xue Yang’s mouth. “Zichen’s little toy. My gorgeous playmate. We could do whatever we want all day, play video games, do our nails. I would dress you up. I’ve got things that would look really good on you. A pretty dress in sage and white lace. Sexy panties. A pair of black cat ears. So soft and pretty. You would be mine all day. And then Zichen would come home–”
Xue Yang's eyes snapped open at another swish-and-whirr sound. At first, he didn’t realize where it came from, but when he blinked to focus his gaze and recognized the worn-out leather belt Song Lan was holding as his own, he understood.
A weird squeak escaped his mouth, a half-hysterical little giggle he couldn’t quite keep in. He glanced up at the barred window, and for a dizzying moment, he imagined seeing the red brick wall behind the drywall, the luxurious king-sized bed transforming into a prison bunk.
What was the deal with these belts? There weren’t even belts in prison uniforms, he thought deliriously. Only guards got to wear them.
“Would you like that, baby?” Xingchen was asking, softer than soft. His mouth trailed down Xue Yang's throat. “That we’d put a collar on you? Let us, baby. You could be all ours.”
“It would look good on you,” Song Lan said, in a voice so low Xue Yang felt the vibration all the way deep inside his chest. The tilt of the mattress as he climbed on the bed almost toppled Xue Yang over, but Song Lan caught him by the shoulders. At least the belt is mine, Xue Yang thought dizzily, like it made any difference, as the soft leather wrapped around his throat.
Xingchen was still there, kissing Xue Yang’s neck, sucking a bruise on the spot above the leather and below Xue Yang’s ear. “Put it on him, honey,” he murmured as he sucked an earlobe into his mouth.
“It’s too long.” Song Lan was holding Xue Yang by the hips now. His gaze was the only steady thing in the world that kept spinning around Xue Yang. “It needs a new hole.”
Xue Yang desperately tried to blink away the bitter water blurring his sight. Where did that come from? He hadn’t cried since he was a child. They wanted him. They really did. Did they?
“Pocket knife,” he croaked. His voice came out all wrong, tight and hoarse. “I’ve got a pocket knife. You can use that.”
Song Lan sucked a searing kiss to the side of Xue Yang’s neck. He pressed his hips against Xue Yang as if to let Xue Yang know just how hard he was making him. Xue Yang could feel how big he was, how hot, even through the fabric of his trousers.
“The right pocket.” Xue Yang was in a hurry now, rapidly losing the fight against the stupid tears welling up in his eyes. “It’s in the right pocket of my jeans. Please.”
“Oh baby,” Xingchen whispered.
Song Lan smelled of whisky and snow. While Xingchen crouched on the floor to search for the knife, he wiped Xue Yang’s eyes dry with the back of his hand. His skin was so warm and alive that Xue Yang had to bite his tongue to keep in the sound choking his throat, and Song Lan, perhaps he knew, because he turned Xue Yang’s face up and kissed him, a kiss so deep it drowned Xue Yang’s piteous sounds, his pain, and his doubt—if something about it felt off, Xue Yang didn’t want to think about it.
Then Xingchen was there, fastening the belt around Xue Yang’s neck. They maneuvered him—Song Lan was now behind him, holding him tight. There was a pop of the cap of the lube bottle, the slick sound of a hand on cock. Xingchen’s kisses, all spit and gasped breath.
“Now,” Xingchen said. “Now you’re ours.”
Song Lan grabbed the end of the belt and yanked Xue Yang’s head back. Xue Yang didn’t fight it. A high-pitched whine escaped his mouth.
Xingchen hooked a finger under the collar, pulling him back up, until they were nose to nose. His strawberry breath fanned across Xue Yang’s face, hot and sugar-sweet.
When he opened his mouth, there was a spit-slick bonbon on his tongue: a glistening glass bauble in the brightest of reds, a warning light, a sweet, sweet promise.
When Xue Yang woke up the next morning, Xingchen was sprawled next to him on the bed, fast asleep, his cheek smashed against the pillow. Song Lan was gone. No laptop on the desk, no black wool coat on the rack, only a pair of folded pajama pants at the foot of the bed and washed-out November light filling the room. It must have been past ten o’clock. Xue Yang’s body felt heavy and limp, his head groggy, like he still wasn’t entirely there.
Thoughts drifting slowly like low-hanging winter clouds in the sky, Xue Yang watched Xingchen’s naked back, the knobs of his vertebrae under his skin. The neat row of bony little domes looked like buttons on a shirt put on backwards. A faint scar marked Xingchen’s lower back. Xue Yang wanted to touch the thin, silky skin, to run his finger across the glossy white of it. He imagined Song Lan’s big hand brushing the thin, pale lines on his own body. The yearning he felt frightened him.
When Xingchen woke up, he took Xue Yang to the bathroom with him. In there, he dug out antiseptic spray—Sting-free, I promise—and a painkiller from his toiletry bag, though it made very little sense to use either so many hours after the fact. They took a shower together, using Xingchen’s nice shower gel that came in a pink-and-gold container and smelled of cotton candy. Afterwards, Xingchen dressed in a pair of pink lace panties, and they made out against the vanity, surrounded by cotton candy steam, until Xingchen came inside the panties and Xue Yang—gasping, fingers digging into Xingchen's shoulder—onto his own belly.
“You could come with us. We’d be good together, the three of us,” Xingchen murmured when they lay in bed some time later, his breath hot against Xue Yang's neck. The tip of a pink silicone dildo was probing between Xue Yang's ass cheeks.
Xue Yang squirmed, trying to push away the hand forcing the slickened toy inside of him: it hurt, and not in a good way.
“Hush, baby,” Xingchen whispered.
Xue Yang closed his eyes—this was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?—and tried to relax. He pictured the three of them getting in the car together to drive away from here. To other cities, other hotel rooms, the nicest apartments Xue Yang could imagine. Anywhere. He could feel Xingchen’s quick breathing against his skin as he slowly inched the toy in, as though Xue Yang was his to use however he wanted, his and Song Lan's. The thought made him cry out with shame and want.
Later, they watched TV in bed, both lulled into a comfortable haze by the bright everydayness of the early evening news. The hours in the quiet hotel room felt so long that Xue Yang thought he might as well have been stuck in this peculiar place with Xingchen forever. Xingchen’s eyes were shiny and blank, as though he had a fever.
Song Lan was in a meeting. They would be here for two more days, Xingchen said. Xue Yang watched the sliver of gray sky visible from behind the bars. Lock Yourself Up And Be Free, said the golden letters on the cover of the guest directory. The air conditioning hummed softly. Xue Yang’s belt was rolled up neatly and placed on top of the pile of his folded clothes. Xingchen checked the time on his phone again. Four twenty-five. Song Lan’s meeting would end at six.
Xue Yang already knew he was going to say yes.