Work Text:
The air doesn't move in the Time Photo Studio.
It hovers, presses down, thick like syrup left out too long. The late afternoon sun leaks in through the glass walls of the sunroom, coating everything in a gold too rich to be comfortable. It floods the tiled floor, bounces off the scratched surface of the portable cooktop, and settles into the creases of the long couch like it's trying to burn itself into memory. Even the shadows are heavy. Still. Sweaty.
Lu Guang sits cross-legged on the floor, back leaning against the couch, a glass of iced coffee dripping with condensation beside his ankle. The ice inside is already melting too fast, its sound faint and desperate. His fingers rest on the rim of the glass, but he doesn't drink it. Not yet. Or never.
Across the room, Cheng Xiaoshi leans over the cooktop, hair tied messily—probably with a rubber band he bit earlier—and a damp towel clings to his bare shoulder. The heat from the pan and the sun competes, and sweat rolls down his spine, soaking the waistband of his shorts. He stirs the rice lazily, more interested in the clinking of ice in the tray he'd set out than the food itself.
The smell of reheated garlic and soy sauce hovers faintly, sticking to the hot air. Lunch is a mix of last night's stir-fry and some leftover rice Cheng Xiaoshi dumped into the pan with an unnecessary flourish, as if cooking scraps could be glamorous. Oil spits against metal—the portable cooktop hums quietly under his fussing.
"Your hair's sticking to your neck again," Lu Guang says quietly.
Cheng Xiaoshi doesn't look up. He pokes at the pan on the induction cooktop, the tip of his tongue sticking out. "You're staring at me."
"You're cooking shirtless," Lu Guang replies, fingers now curled around the glass. The chill of it is a lie. His own T-shirt clings uncomfortably to his lower back, but he doesn't mention it.
Cheng Xiaoshi dumps the rice onto two plates with little ceremony, abandoning them on the low table like an afterthought. He's already moved on, crouched by the electric kettle to boil water, his fingers drumming impatiently as he squeezes lime and spoons syrup into two glasses. The ice he cracks with the back of a spoon sings sharper than the kettle's click.
"I'm trying to survive," Cheng Xiaoshi says dramatically, finally turning around to face him. "If I die of heatstroke making this iced syrup thing for you, promise me you'll scatter my ashes in a blender with crushed ice. Make me into a summer drink."
"You'd taste awful," Lu Guang says. Dry.
"Wrong," Cheng Xiaoshi grins. "I'd taste like regret, tragedy, and mango."
He walks over with a glass in each hand, drops of sweat trailing from his jaw to his collarbone. The glasses are unevenly filled—one has more syrup, the other more ice—and he nearly spills one as he drops down beside Lu Guang.
"There." Cheng Xiaoshi bumps his knee against Lu Guang's. "Pick one. If you choose the wrong one, we'll fight."
Lu Guang raises an eyebrow but reaches out. Grabs the one with more syrup.
Silence.
Cheng Xiaoshi's mouth drops open in horror. "You always do this. You always pick what I wanted just by guessing. It's like a sick game."
Lu Guang lifts the glass to his lips, hiding a smile behind the rim. "Maybe you're just easy to read."
"No," Cheng Xiaoshi says, offended. "I'm an enigma wrapped in sexy mystery."
"You're leaking sweat all over the floor."
"You wound me."
The coffee by Lu Guang's ankle stays untouched, its bitterness drowned in melting ice, the ring it leaves on the floor widening. He doesn't reach for it. Not when the other glass—bright with lime and cold syrup—is in his hand instead, cooling his fingers with something far more tempting.
The first sip hits cold and sweet. Lu Guang swallows slowly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. The syrup clings to his teeth, sticky, sharp with lime and sugar. It doesn't erase the heat, but it distracts from it.
When he opens his eyes, Cheng Xiaoshi is watching him too openly. A ridiculous, fond little tilt to his head.
"What?" Lu Guang says, not quite looking at him.
Cheng Xiaoshi leans closer. "Let me taste."
Lu Guang pauses. "It's your own drink."
Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. "Maybe I want yours."
He leans in more, sweat clinging to his temple, his breath warm and minty from the gum he chewed earlier then spat into the trash with unnecessary drama. His nose brushes Lu Guang's cheek first. Then the corners of their mouths almost touch.
"Stop stalling," Lu Guang murmurs.
"Not stalling. I'm—romanticizing."
"Pick one."
"You."
The kiss starts slow—humid, sticky, without urgency but not without intent. Cheng Xiaoshi presses in with the edge of a smile, lips cold from the drink, tongue darting quick like he's chasing a flavor. Lu Guang lets it happen, eyes half-lidded, hand still loosely holding the sweating glass. The floor is too hot, the couch behind him too rough on his spine, but none of it matters when Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head, deepening it.
The ice clinks in the glass between them.
Cheng Xiaoshi hums against his mouth, playful, greedy. Then he pulls back a little, breathless but smiling like a boy with something to hide.
"Yours tastes better."
Lu Guang narrows his eyes. "You already had the same drink."
"No. Yours has your mouth on it." Cheng Xiaoshi licks the corner of his lips. "Might be psychological, might be gay. Probably both."
"Both," Lu Guang confirms.
Cheng Xiaoshi lets out a soft, giddy laugh and shifts, one knee slipping between Lu Guang's legs as he pushes him gently back more against the couch. It's unhurried, but heavy—Cheng Xiaoshi's weight, his thigh pressing in, the heat between them folding over itself.
"Don't spill that," Cheng Xiaoshi mutters, nudging the glass in Lu Guang's hand with his forehead before taking it and setting it down beside them.
"You're sweaty."
"You're not exactly air-conditioned either."
He kisses him again, this time slower. One palm pressed against the side of Lu Guang's neck, fingers tracing the damp skin just under his ear. His other hand finds Lu Guang's waist, sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, thumb brushing heat and muscle. Lu Guang breathes in through his nose and parts his lips without thinking. The taste of lime lingers.
Cheng Xiaoshi's body moves against him, slow but sure. The grind is gentle, but there's weight in it—rhythm. He pulls back slightly to look down at Lu Guang. His voice drops, low and rough with heat and something almost desperate.
"Want you," he murmurs. It's not a request. Not an order either. Just truth. "Let me?"
Lu Guang doesn't speak for a long beat. Their breaths fill the quiet between them. The sweat running down his temples. The burn of the floor through the thin fabric of his shorts. The weight of Cheng Xiaoshi against his thigh. It's not too much. But it's real.
"I don't want to right now," Lu Guang says. Steady. Still kissing-slow. "Not here."
A blink. Cheng Xiaoshi stills, shoulders tensing. Then relaxing all at once.
"Okay."
No disappointment. Just that one word. Cheng Xiaoshi shifts, easing his weight back, but not moving away. He nudges Lu Guang's temple with his own, then trails his nose down to his jaw. His voice turns lighter.
"Can I still hump you like a sad puppy for five more seconds?"
Lu Guang exhales. "Three seconds."
Cheng Xiaoshi whines. "You're cruel."
"You'll live."
He presses in again, dramatically slow and exaggerated, one hand flopping across Lu Guang's stomach. "One, two—wait, do I count mentally or out loud?"
"Your time's up."
"No!"
Lu Guang pushes his forehead against Cheng Xiaoshi's chest to hide the small smile tugging at his lips.
They end up folded together on the floor. Lu Guang reclines against the couch with Cheng Xiaoshi half on top of him, face pressed into his shoulder, their legs tangled messily. The ice in the drinks has all but melted. The glass leaves a wet ring on the tile. Neither of them move to clean it up.
Cheng Xiaoshi mumbles into his collarbone. "Let's go somewhere with a beach. A real one. With sand and jellyfish."
Lu Guang hums.
"And we can eat overpriced grilled squid and wear bad sunglasses. You'd look hot in bad sunglasses."
"No one looks hot in bad sunglasses."
"You would."
"Mm."
Cheng Xiaoshi lifts his head, resting his chin on Lu Guang's sternum, his hair sticking in chaotic curls. "Let's go. For real. Let's actually go."
"To a beach?"
"Yeah. Qiao Ling gave us time off. We could do it."
Lu Guang runs his fingers along the back of Cheng Xiaoshi’s neck, a slow drag through sweat and sun-damp hair. "I hate sand."
"You like suffering when it's with me."
Lu Guang snorts. "You'll complain the whole time."
"Yes. Loudly. And dramatically. And shirtlessly."
Lu Guang pauses. Then, softly, "Okay."
Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He beams—honest, toothy, stupidly bright.
"Lu Guang," Cheng Xiaoshi says, with mock gravity, "if we die at sea, I just want you to know—"
"You'd taste like regret, tragedy, and mango."
A beat. Then laughter, tangled and warm. Lu Guang's lips brush the top of his head. Cheng Xiaoshi buries his face into his chest again, muttering something ridiculous about crabs and sunburns and sharing a towel because he'll forget to bring one.
The sun slants lower. The studio smells like lime and sweat and syrup now. The plates of rice still sit untouched on the table, the smell faint now, forgotten. The iced drinks are long gone, but their kiss still tastes like summer.
And neither of them move