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The idea comes to him on a Sunday. He’ll remember this later because they go grocery shopping on Sundays. Saturdays are for picnics in the park, or sex in the living room, or ordering in Chinese and then disagreeing on the menu so much that they fuck about it. Sundays though -- Sundays are for groceries.
So it’s a Sunday. The sky is boiling, and the drive to the grocery store is quiet in the way that Xiao Xingchen knows that Song Lan’s knuckles are itching. Xue Yang yammers into his phone from the back seat, his voice a sugary thing ( Meng Yao, you fucking dick, I already said no. I’m going legit, jesus, what part of fucking legitimate don’t you understand. I’m not gonna -- ) and it would be normal if not for the small sips of air that punctuate his speech ( Meng -- a hitch -- Yao -- a small gasp -- you fucking dick ). Xiao Xingchen smiles. Xue Yang’s asshole must still be a pulpy mess.
Last night had been -- Last night had been. Song Lan’s palms are wide and flat and they rest on his knees as if they were harmless, as if, twelve hours ago, they hadn’t been squeezing the life out of his throat as Xue Yang watched dazedly. As if, twelve hours ago, they hadn’t then pistoned into Xue Yang’s ass until he freckled the air with whimpers. As if, twelve hours ago, they hadn’t wiped up the mess afterwards.
Xiao Xingchen smiles. It had been a good night.
“Are you ready?” he asks. He soaks in the huff of Xue Yang’s wince as the car rocks to a stop.
“Yeah,” Xue Yang says weakly. He’s put away his phone -- shoved it into his back pocket -- and is struggling with the seatbelt. Xiao Xingchen feels his smile tilt. Xue Yang is so thin. Fragile. Like an animal, buckled in.
Song Lan catches his eye once they park and step outside. They’re knee-deep in June, and the air is too warm. Song Lan’s eyes don’t leave his, even as they walk across the pancaked asphalt. His gaze is steady, unreadable were it not for the occasional blink -- twice, a flutter. Xiao Xingchen counts this, but says nothing. He tangles their fingers together instead. Xue Yang is already several steps ahead, cart in tow and mumbling something about discounts.
“Come on!” he calls back to them.
They step into the beaming store. Xiao Xingchen finds Song Lan’s thumb, presses a nail against it, and starts to chip away at the bit of polish. Sundays , he hums to himself. Sundays are so pretty and so sharp. As they weave through the aisles, they leave a trail of polish -- small flakes that scatter onto the happy floors -- and this, this too, is good.
###
Grocery stores are funny places. Blinking bright lights, water-park-slick tiles. Flowers by the entrance. Everything neatly shrink-wrapped, jarred, or cardboard-hugged. Xiao Xingchen knows there must be a metaphor but is too lazy to untangle it.
He finds himself wandering away from Song Lan and Xue Yang and into the produce section. “Produce!” the sign above him sings smartly. It’s a cute sign. There’s a hand-drawn picture of a dancing broccoli with a smiling face, and it tickles Xiao Xingchen each time he sees it. Hello! he imagines the broccoli saying. Hello! Don’t forget to eat your greens! He gives the broccoli his own voice, but sometimes the broccoli has no voice at all. Just a green stalk with green cloud-flowers and a pasted-on expression that says, eat your greens please, eat your greens .
This part of the store is damp with life. Today he runs his fingers through the colors of it: green, of course, but also the other colors -- sienna, ochre, chili-red, and pepper-yellow. The scallions look especially fresh, and so he spends a minute, then another, just standing by them with his fingers wrapped around a loose handful. The stalks are firm, their tips like arrowed kisses, and the roots tangle wetly under the semi-automatic curtain of mist.
It’s a centering feeling -- standing here, just him and the scallions. He knows they’d continue to grow if he took them home and left the roots in water. He’d tried it once in a jar -- he remembers it clearly -- but they’d rotted at the first hint of green. Song Lan had been forced to throw them away ( You can’t coax everything to life, Xiao Xingchen ). Still, the thought slots into his mind the way that Sundays have always fit in his mouth: rounded and firm.
‘Like’ is such a strange, incomplete word for the way that standing here makes him feel, but he uses it nonetheless. Here, one hand growing damp as the other stays dry by his side, Xiao Xingchen feels as if he’s being watered too. And he likes it. He likes the life.
###
Song Lan and Xue Yang are -- they are. Sometimes, when Xiao Xingchen thinks about them, he thinks of them in sentences, fully fleshed out. Sentences like meat lollipops, with cubes of the tough stuff packed on -- the crunch and chew of chicken-ventricle-thoughts paired with the tang of yellow-pepper-smiles. The image never fails to make him grin. He feels the inside of his top lip slide over an incisor, and this too is entertaining. There’s a ghost in his mouth, and it’s Song Lan’s tongue against his gums; it’s Xue Yang sipping up his spit.
He finds them in the middle of the snack aisle. They’re bickering over whether Xue Yang should be allowed to toss a chocolate bar into the shopping cart. The aisle is empty, and Xue Yang’s arm makes a quick arc, wrist smashing into the nearby tortilla chips. Song Lan catches it -- half a second too late -- and here, here’s a picture of the easy intimacy, familiar and a bit mean. Xiao Xingchen watches as Xue Yang swallows. Catches the dart of Song Lan’s eyes.
“Song Lan,” Xiao Xingchen says, and soaks in the way both men stiffen. The blush hits them at different angles -- it crawls over the upturn of Xue Yang’s nose and saddles itself prettily above his nostrils; it slants across the plane of Song Lan’s cheekbones.
Xiao Xingchen walks over and cranes his neck in. Sometimes , he thinks. Sometimes, sometimes. If he could just -- maybe if he could just lean in close enough, he’d be able to press his fingers against the skin -- delicate on Xue Yang, fever-warm on Song Lan -- maybe he could press a nail in, just to see if he could scrape the blush off. Carry it with the dirt underneath his fingernails for a good twenty-four hours. Maybe the blush would have the chance to bleed into his nailbeds before Song Lan cleans them, the way he does every Monday night.
(Monday nights: Song Lan soaking Xiao Xingchen’s fingers in warm water and softening them before clipping the nails. Clack-clack-clack , the sound mirrors Xue Yang’s latest shooting game. Clack-clack-clack, the monsters on screen die. Clack-clack-clack and Xiao Xingchen’s fingers are freshly shorn again.)
Back here, though. Back here, Sunday, supermarket. Supermarket Sunday.
It’s easy to steer them away from the snacks. They have other things on their list, things that their bodies will clamor for -- meat, complex carbohydrates, macros , Song Lan likes to say, and Xiao Xingchen will lock eyes with Xue Yang and the two of them will huff into the thin spaces between their bodies.
Song Lan steers the cart and grunts out what they need: ground beef, ground pork, chicken thighs. The meat section is a rainbow of flesh in all its colors, which is to say, varying shades of blood and bone. Xue Yang dawdles.
“The ground beef is cheaper. We should get more of that, rather than the ground pork. It’s a fucking rip-off.” He thumbs the plastic that’s stretched over a slab of meat. A block of compressed guts, worm-like in the fluorescent lights. Xiao Xingchen doesn’t miss the familiar press of the nail. Song Lan likes to wait until morning to clean Xue Yang’s nails; Xue Yang is more malleable when he’s half-asleep. And the sounds that Xue Yang makes -- well. Sometimes Xiao Xingchen can’t help himself. Afterwards, Xue Yang likes to dip his fingers, freshly clipped, into the mess of come on their bedsheets.
Song Lan is sighing though. “Not everything has to be bought based on the unit price,” he says, running a hand through his hair. He winces at the way Xue Yang carelessly tosses aside a smaller block -- this one vacuum-sealed, the word organic emblazoned proudly across its grass-fed chest. Xiao Xingchen recognizes it as a brand that Song Lan prefers. Expensive.
It’s an old back-and-forth. Xue Yang will make decisions based on price and discount. Song Lan will point out the importance of quality. Usually, they’ll compromise -- a dollar off here means an extra dollar spent there. Song Lan still doesn’t fully get it, but Xiao Xingchen does. It’s the simple act of owning something that’s worth more than what you paid for , he’d told Song Lan once. It’d made Song Lan pause, and Xiao Xingchen can tell that Song Lan is thinking of this as Xue Yang points out the insane deal on chicken drumsticks this week .
“Hey,” he breathes. He pulls Song Lan by the elbow, leaving Xue Yang to steer the cart.
“Hey, yourself.” Song Lan’s eyes are dark-dark, and he lets Xiao Xingchen pull him so that they’re walking alongside Xue Yang and the cart. They’re weaving past the condiments now, and Xue Yang haphazardly throws in a few items.
Xue Yang’s hand wraps around a bottle of olive oil and Xiao Xingchen perches his chin on Song Lan’s shoulder. Makes sure his tongue flicks along the shell, then whispers, Olive oil, Song Lan. Slippery, isn’t it? Doesn’t it make you think of --
Song Lan swallows, but Xiao Xingchen doesn’t stop. Xue Yang doesn’t look over either, too preoccupied with the bargain-bin deals.
“Hey, look, two for one deal on butter,” he says. ( Song Lan, do you remember how easily he parted for us? How slick he was?)
“We should get strawberries, too. They’re in season so they’re no longer gonna gauge our wallets.” ( Song Lan, look how red they are. Just like how his thighs were last night, after you slapped him. Remember the sounds he made? )
“I think we’re low on laundry detergent.” ( Song Lan, you know we’re going to be ruining the sheets tonight, don’t you? )
By the time they pass through the baked goods section, Song Lan is shuddering. Shivering. Xiao Xingchen thinks of how the muscle fibers across his back must be pulled taut, like fine strands stretched across a loom. His fingers itch. It would be so easy to run his hands across the wide expanse of flesh, let his unclipped nails rip through cloth and skin --
“Fuck, guys, we’re definitely getting the donuts,” Xue Yang announces, except this time Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. He doesn’t need to whisper the thought into Song Lan’s ears -- by now, he’s primed Song Lan well ( Song Lan, I know you’re thinking about his asshole) and it’s clear that Xue Yang knows -- knows -- this time. In this instance.
Still, Xue Yang doesn’t protest. Just hums and throws Xiao Xingchen a thoughtful look. He tightens his bad hand for a moment but loosens it just as quickly. They do not buy the donuts.
They’re nearly done -- they all know it and the knowledge squats on their chests, makes it difficult to breathe normally as they head towards the checkout line. Song Lan keeps clearing his throat, flexing his fingers. The backs of his hands ripple, all sinew and muscle, and Xue Yang nudges at the movement, his voice an eddying sort of chatter.
“And yeah, we definitely need Dr. Pepper. Maybe some orange Fanta too,” Xue Yang is saying, chewing the inside of his cheek.
Here. Here . Here is where Xiao Xingchen stutters a little bit. He quickly pivots a half-step, then dips in behind Song Lan, and finally lopes over to Xue Yang, who’s already fisting a bottle of something radioactive and orange from the fridge.
Xue Yang hesitates as Xiao Xingchen nears -- and here, here’s the moment where the idea crystallizes, where it goes from vapor straight to crystal, the promise of it sweating down the door of the fridge. The image burns sweetly behind Xiao Xingchen’s eyes.
He clears his throat. Pitches it so that it hits Xue Yang low, right below the Adam’s apple.
“Xue Yang,” Xiao Xingchen says delicately. He tracks the way Xue Yang shrugs a shoulder and chooses to ignore the way Xue Yang’s bad hand tightens along the door handle. “I think that we should stock up on some beverages, don’t you?”
Xue Yang smiles uneasily. From the corner of his eye, Xiao Xingchen watches as Song Lan lumbers closer. The whole scene of it is beautiful, bathed in the glow of modern convenience.
Sometimes Xiao Xingchen wishes he could step outside his body, or perhaps float above it and look down -- look down so that he can soak in the composition that he’s so neatly arranged: Xue Yang, frozen in the center, his head a Madonna, the beverage in hand radiant with possibility. He and Song Lan, taking up the rears. Not in worship, but in recognition. The shopping cart behind them an afterthought, a glimmer of what lies ahead. If they were a painting -- like the ones that Song Lan likes to bookmark, likes to save onto their desktop ( Song Lan, why do you have that Michelangelo shit on your lock screen? ) -- it’d be High Renaissance, undoubtedly.
Xue Yang breaks the scene with a lurch of the shopping cart.
“Come on,” he says. He grabs four bottles from the fridge and smoothly bags their purchases before shifting impatiently. “Let’s go.”
They pass by a spread of nectarines on the way out. Xiao Xingchen doesn’t miss Xue Yang’s subtle limp, nor Song Lan’s unwavering gaze. He smiles and sinks his teeth into the moment. Once outside, he lets the sun juice itself onto his forehead, golden with things to come.
###
Home is a short drive. It always feels faster driving back, and it probably is -- Xiao Xingchen knows he’s riding the momentum of the list of things he’d like to do. All the things he’s planned, categorized, charted out. A constellation of activities, splashed across the greedy sky of his mind.
Outside, the world passes by in a parade of sensation: the misty woods, sulfurous roadkill plastered into the asphalt, rugburn-raw stop signs. In the mirror, Xiao Xingchen watches as Xue Yang gulps down a Fanta before throwing the empty bottle to one side.
They’re quiet, but they’re simmering. Xiao Xingchen rubs his thumbs along the steering wheel, and waits. Just a little bit more.
###
The thing about grocery shopping is that it’s all about choice. Choice, and careful observation. It’s easy to become overwhelmed: rows upon rows of tools and ingredients. Millions of permutations of tried-and-true recipes. Hundreds of instant, quick, and halfway-cooked meals. Going in with a list, or at least an idea, becomes paramount.
(What’s on the menu tonight, Xingchen? )
Xiao Xingchen likes to approach the activity through the lens of preparation. What will he need to prepare himself for the week ahead? What will he need to feed the three of them with minimal obstacles?
( Tell me you want more, Xue Yang. Tell me how you want it.)
What will he need to have Xue Yang and Song Lan eating out of his hand?
( more, please, please Xingchen, I need it, I need it, please -- )
So, the supermarket is an arena for preparation.
( fuck, Xingchen, do you think he can fit both of us? God, he’s so fucking tight, god Xue Yang --)
And now, now that they’ve gone and come back, Xingchen is nothing if not prepared.
“Finally,” he says, once the door clicks shut behind them.
###
This is why Xiao Xingchen loves Sundays. Sundays mean Xue Yang stretched out before him, naked and arching off one of their high-top breakfast bar chairs. They’re in the kitchen, and the tiled floor gleams back at Xue Yang as his body glistens in the damp air. He’s gasping, making noises so short that they comma-splice the air into silences that convey more than the words themselves: Xiao -- Xingchen -- ah -- ah -- fuck ----- ah -- ah -- fuck --- ah --- ah --
It’s good. Xue Yang is being so good. He hasn’t always been this way. The first time, he’d gulped down an entire bottle of the fizzy orange soda, then another. There’d been no pause, no waiting. It’d been all wasted effort -- Xue Yang’s stomach, not yet elastic enough for the carbonation. They’d gotten there too fast, too soon, and it’d ended in tears. Xue Yang hadn’t known, yet. Hadn’t known the picture that Xiao Xingchen had wanted to paint. They hadn’t tried again.
Now, though. Now, Xue Yang is obedient.
Song Lan holds a Fanta against Xue Yang’s bottom lip. The meat of his palm dwarfs the body of the plastic bottle, and condensation buds down the neck. Xiao Xingchen leans in and licks at where it collects -- the thin webbing between Song Lan’s thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t look away from Xue Yang.
“I think,” Xiao Xingchen says between laps. “I think you can take more, can’t you?”
He snakes one hand along one of Xue Yang’s thighs just as he brushes a canine against Song Lan’s thin-thin skin. Song Lan and Xue Yang inhale in quick succession. Xiao Xingchen smiles around the sound. A composition , he thinks, must have rhythm .
“Please,” Xue Yang gasps. His thigh is soft, the bone beneath a suggestion realized at the knee. He tries to angle himself wider, to give Xiao Xingchen easier access to his cock, already road-rage-flushed and dripping precome onto a chair that’s too small -- too small for how Xiao Xingchen plans to wring Song Lan and Xue Yang together. His two favorite tea towel humans, his sun-freckled loves. Willing instruments, well-cared for.
Xiao Xingchen nudges Song Lan with his free hand, forcing the bottle to tip into Xue Yang’s waiting mouth. They can all hear the swallows -- round fizzes that go down muscularly as Xue Yang’s esophagus squeezes the liquid down.
“Please,” Xue Yang says again, but they ignore him. Song Lan crinkles the empty bottle until the plastic collapses into his fist, and Xiao Xingchen makes note of the way the gesture makes Xue Yang’s eyes burn: something gazelle-intense, a mix of dazed fear and scrabbling impatience.
Xiao Xingchen nods. Xue Yang’s instincts aren’t wrong. There are perils in this room. He and Song Lan. The things they’ve done to him. The things they have yet to do.
He fishes another bottle from the bag at their feet. Presses it against Xue Yang’s thigh. It’s still cool, and Xue Yang jolts at the sensation before Song Lan cups his chin with one hand and pulls out a long, lingering kiss.
“Can you handle another bottle, or do you need time?” Xiao Xingchen asks quietly.
Xue Yang shakes his head, his words still caught under Song Lan’s tongue. It’s one of those images with lasting power: the orange from Xue Yang’s gums imprinting onto the cupid’s bow of Song Lan’s lips. Xiao Xingchen tugs on Song Lan, breaking the kiss, and licks up the stain. Makes sure Xue Yang can see. Can heave with want.
Xue Yang mewls, and this time Xiao Xingchen smiles.
“You’re in deep, aren’t you?” He traces a nail down the curve of Xue Yang’s cheek, pressing in just a bit, a little echo of their foray in the grocery store ( ground beef, Song Lan ) and he hears Song Lan’s breath catch wetly. Good , Xiao Xingchen thinks. It’s good that he and Song Lan are on the same page.
He shifts, sliding his hand down the sticky line of throat-sternum-belly button. Xue Yang shudders at the touch, and yes, there, there’s the beginnings of a soft swell. Good. Xiao Xingchen rocks his hand -- back and forth, an eddying motion -- and Xue Yang whimpers softly, shifting again in discomfort. He knows better than to try to cross his legs, but his knees still twitch. It makes Xiao Xingchen feel greedy -- this unconscious reflex of Xue Yang’s. Xue Yang manages to stamp it down, to lock out his knees, but still, Xiao Xingchen has seen it. He licks his lips.
“Do you need time, A-Yang?”
They already know the answer, and so he doesn’t wait. He reaches towards the far cabinet -- does so smoothly, steadily. It’s time to start. To really start. Sundays may be his favorite day, but this -- this will be Xiao Xingchen’s new favorite game. Leisurely, he sets down three glasses onto the bar before them: champagne flute, wine glass, martini glass. Three in a row. Neat. An easy choice. He taps at Xue Yang’s cheek.
“Which one, A-Yang?”
Xue Yang lolls forward before inching his bad hand towards the martini glass. Xiao Xingchen smiles and brushes his lips against Xue Yang’s forehead.
“You chose well,” he says. He tucks a stray strand of hair -- clinging wetly against the curve of Xue Yang’s jaw -- behind an ear, and then kneels down and efficiently pulls down Song Lan’s sweatpants and mouths at his cock.
The moan he hears could be Xue Yang’s or Song Lan’s. It could be both of their voices together, braiding through the air. Xiao Xingchen doesn’t care -- it’s too small a detail, infinitesimally small compared to the weight of Song Lan’s cock straining against the cotton of his underwear. It’s a rough weave and Xiao Xingchen laps through the fabric, burying his nose into Song Lan’s smell, bitter from a morning of activity.
It’s easy to stroke Song Lan to hardness. Easier still to return his hand to Xue Yang’s belly, feel for the gentle curve as he slides his other hand along Song Lan’s cock, palming his hand underneath the briefs, and the picture of it is obscene: the way his hand bulges out, cupping the length. Xue Yang is breathing in rhythm with Song Lan now -- short little wheezes, and when Xiao Xingchen spares a look, he can tell that Xue Yang wants it. Xue Yang wants it.
Xue Yang wants it, and he looks like this: He’s leaning forward with his chest as if he’s fighting an invisible restraint, his chin a finger’s-breadth away from kissing Song Lan’s thigh. He’s sitting on his hands as if he doesn’t trust them. His legs are parted the way that Xiao Xingchen likes, and his cock stands at attention. He’s so hard he’s nearly purple with it.
Good. The training is working.
Song Lan is close, and Xiao Xingchen gives Xue Yang a slow smile before sliding down Song Lan’s underwear. When Song Lan steps out of it, his quad brushes up against the side of Xue Yang’s cheek and both men freeze as if the brief touch is enough for them to tear through their skin for more. They’re so -- Xiao Xingchen sighs happily. They’re so fucking hard.
It doesn’t take much. His hand, spit, a little bit of tongue, and Song Lan comes with a groan. Xiao Xingchen is ever-ready, pulling his mouth away and lifting the martini glass just so, and he catches the upwards arc of come. It splatters within the curve of the rim and the sound of it is as filthy as it looks.
Xue Yang is the first to speak. “You gonna make me drink it?” He licks his lips and tries for cocksure, but his eyes betray him - they skitter around Xiao Xingchen as if looking at him would be blinding. Xiao Xingchen smiles sunnily, letting it widen until he’s giving Xue Yang something that’s framed by incisors and pink gum.
Be good , his teeth remind Xue Yang, and Xue Yang folds back into himself, one hand creeping onto his belly as if reminding himself of his own precarious position.
Still, Xue Yang isn’t wrong. Xiao Xingchen was going to make him drink it. Watch Xue Yang toss it back. It’s a pretty sight -- he already sees it in between slow blinks. He centers himself though -- how, he thinks, how can I make it -- how can I make it worse? How can I make it even better ?
His eye catches the bar cart in the corner and this -- ah . Yes, here’s the beginning of a new idea.
Xue Yang’s eyes widen as Xiao Xingchen pours gin into the martini glass and then, as if embarrassed, he tries for a snarl. It’s toothless though because Song Lan has already dropped to his knees, licking a stripe up Xue Yang’s cock, giving him no time to actually react, and soon, Xiao Xingchen is standing above both of them, glass in hand. Xue Yang makes a small noise when he sees it: effervescent, slightly cloudy. A summer promise.
“Drink up, A-Yang,” Xiao Xingchen says, and he brings the glass to Xue Yang’s lips just as Song Lan curls his tongue around Xue Yang’s cock. Xue Yang’s restraint is admirable here: he still manages to gulp down the mix of come and gin -- all it takes is 3 swallows, and it’s art, it truly is: Song Lan on his knees; the elevator-bob of Xue Yang’s Adam’s apple; the empty glass. It’s -- the sight has Xiao Xingchen on the verge of shoving his cock into Xue Yang’s mouth -- he knows Xue Yang would like it -- would see victory in swaying Xiao Xingchen’s attention, diverting it away from the original plan.
Xiao Xingchen takes a breath. He’s been waiting all afternoon to carry out what he has in mind, and so he pulls Song Lan away from Xue Yang’s cock and makes him rest his head on one thin thigh. Good. He’ll be at eye-level with Xue Yang’s belly the entire time.
Hm.
There could be more done to this picture: Song Lan still hazy, as if the sight of Xue Yang drinking his come had pulled him into the pink of his brains; Xue Yang, deep-deep-deep in the place that makes him pliant, that makes him well-fucked and breathless with it. Xiao Xingchen feels a bit like a sculptor: molding the moment and carving out the gesture of two bodies so that their arrangement is to his liking. The answer lies in Song Lan’s hands -- and here, here, Xiao Xingchen places them so that one rests on Xue Yang’s knee and the other rests on Xue Yang’s belly, still warm from where Xiao Xingchen had rested his palm.
There.
Song Lan’s growl is a hot, rumbling thing when he feels the fullness. Xue Yang rocks into the touch, the tip of his cock tapping Song Lan at the knuckles, and Xiao Xingchen laughs lightly.
Xue Yang looks like he wants to speak -- Xiao Xingchen can already see the words ( fuck you, Xingchen, fuck you you sick fuck, just fucking fuck me, just let me fucking come ) but Song Lan knows his part well, and the hand on Xue Yang’s belly presses down just enough so that Xue Yang gasps. Song Lan gives Xiao Xingchen a questioning look -- can I? please? his eyes ask -- and Xiao Xingchen nods. Song Lan drags his heavy head down and takes Xue Yang’s cock in his mouth. The gasp is delicious.
Xiao Xingchen gives them a moment. He can be generous, and Xue Yang has done a passable job at behaving so far. Sometimes it’s good to reward behavior; he’s studied it before -- Pavlov, obviously. He’s even played around with it: there’s a reason why Xue Yang licks his lips whenever they’re talking about Song Lan’s come, just as there’s a reason why Xue Yang’s eyes will go deep and flat once they take out his collar. ( Xiao Xingchen, please --)
Xue Yang always begs for it so prettily.
Now, though. Xiao Xingchen runs a finger down Xue Yang’s torso until his hand rests above Song Lan’s. Song Lan teases Xue Yang, pulling off his cock and settling for a filthy kiss. Xiao Xingchen hums as he watches their tongues turn into each other. It’s a muscular exchange, and it has Xiao Xingchen sharpening his thoughts for something that’ll cut through.
I want to be inside you , he’d said to Xue Yang last night, and Xue Yang had laughed, had probably thought, Xiao Xingchen just wants to fuck me. And Xiao Xingchen did, except that he wanted that and more -- he wanted to empty Xue Yang, body and mind. Wanted to see Xue Yang bleed and piss and then be reamed with cock, filled with come, the oxygen knocked out of his smoker’s lungs. Wanted to see Xue Yang sob mindlessly into the bed, begging for something that he’d lost all words for. Xiao Xingchen still wants that. He wants Xue Yang wheezing.
The thing is -- The thing is. They still have one more bottle. Actually, two, but maybe Xiao Xingchen will be nice today. The day is his; the night is his. Song Lan and Xue Yang -- they’re his, they’re his, they’re --
Xiao Xingchen wriggles his pinky finger in between their tongues, breaking the kiss. Song Lan’s cock is twitching again, and Xiao Xingchen traces a wet line from base to tip. “Be good,” he breathes.
Xue Yang lets out another whimper as Xiao Xingchen crisply breaks the seal off one of the two remaining bottles. Dr. Pepper. Cute. The bottle must have been jostled in the car though, because just as Xiao Xingchen lifts up the cap, there’s a small carbonated explosion, with nearly half the soda spilling onto the kitchen floor. Xiao Xingchen raises an eyebrow at the brief look of relief that gallops across Xue Yang’s face.
Perhaps Xue Yang will drink the second bottle then.
The half-bottle goes down easier than Xiao Xingchen expects. Xue Yang’s mouth is slippery and pliant around the edge and some of it splashes down his chest, dripping onto Song Lan’s fingers and where he’s rested his chin in the space where hip meets thigh.
He’s so fragile, like this. Beautiful, really: a breath and a sob away from choking, his eyes already watering. Xiao Xingchen traces smooth circles along the quick expanse of thigh, skating fingers along Song Lan’s chin every time he nears Xue Yang’s cock and timing each rub to a swallow.
This is the calm before the storm. The quiet. The air buzzes around them and Xiao Xingchen drinks it in: the slowing, gradual way in which Xue Yang finishes the bottle, the half-sob as he tries to shift in his chair; the beginnings of a shudder that makes its way up his spine. Song Lan holds him in place and Xue Yang stills as if he’s about to run but can’t -- can’t, and so his retreat becomes a mental one. There’s a certain theater to the scene. A certain -- just, something holy, something sacred, about pushing Xue Yang to the borders of his mind.
Where will you surface? Xiao Xingchen wants to ask. Because it’s so beautiful when Xue Yang surfaces -- when he ultimately plunges into his own head so deeply that he comes out the other side.
It’s Song Lan who makes a noise first -- something that sounds like a hitch of surprise, and a quick glance tells Xiao Xingchen all he needs to know: Xue Yang’s stomach is now clearly distended and bloated from the soda. His skin stretches with it -- he’s pale, always has been pale, and now it’s as if he’s about to -- Xiao Xingchen seizes the thought, doesn’t think it so much as feel it -- Xue Yang looks full. As if he’s about to explode, to ripen, and yes, this -- this --
They’re right at the cusp of it: the cusp of what Xiao Xingchen has been ferrying all three of them towards, and it feels -- Xiao Xingchen clenches both hands, then finds that last remaining bottle. He barely registers it -- it’s orange, so this time it’s Fanta rather than Dr. Pepper, but that’s it, that’s the entire short arc of his thought because one moment the bottle is sealed and the next the lid is off and it’s pressed up against Xue Yang’s mouth.
Xue Yang doesn’t expect the force nor the precision with which Xiao Xingchen tilts Xue Yang’s head back and soon the orange soda spills out through his teeth. He gasps for air and his hands try to scrabble for something -- anything , Xiao Xingchen notes with satisfaction, and it’s so delightful that he dips in for a small kiss, pressing his top lip on the swell of Xue Yang’s nose before licking away the tiny beads of sweat. Xue Yang looks at him, eyes glazed in desperation.
Xiao Xingchen sighs and slathers his voice in well-oiled disappointment.
“If you want to come, you have to finish the rest bottle first,” he says, toying with a strand of Xue Yang’s hair. There isn’t much left -- a few mouthfuls at most -- but Song Lan presses his hand down on Xue Yang’s belly, presses down hard and quick, and Xue Yang yelps and flushes, sharp teeth coming down hard on his bottom lip. Xiao Xingchen grazes a finger along the tip of Xue Yang’s cock, just to check, just to make sure, and yes, it’s good because Xue Yang is still hard, still purpled with want, still only damp with precome, with nothing else. The fact has Xiao Xingchen smiling so wide that Xue Yang will hear it before he registers the sight.
“Is there something wrong, A-Yang?” he sings into Xue Yang’s ear.
Xue Yang shakes his head, and Xiao Xingchen rewards the answer by massaging the bruised bottom lip. It’s already turning a dark maroon -- something to admire in the morning. Xue Yang makes a sharp whimper, but Song Lan soothes it away with a broad stroke of his hand right up along Xue Yang’s cock.
Deftly, Xiao Xingchen pours the last of the bottle into the champagne flute behind them and raises it towards Xue Yang face. He can be merciful, this time -- they’re so close to the end, and why would Xiao Xingchen want to rush an ending? If Xue Yang wants to take his time -- if Xue Yang wants to draw this out even longer --
Xue Yang doesn’t. He drinks as if he’s thirsty -- as if he has something to prove -- and once he’s done, he lets out a short hiccup that seems to travel through his body. The sound of it -- Xiao Xingchen can hear the liquid sloshing inside Xue Yang, and it only serves to amplify just how -- how much his belly has expanded from the liquid. And Xue Yang notices too -- he looks down just as Song Lan looks up, and their eyes catch -- Xiao Xingchen clocks it the moment Song Lan swallows -- tight and dry -- and yes -- yes -- Song Lan begins to rub Xue Yang’s stomach, fingers dancing along the stretched skin, tapping along the middle and slowly, slowly , thumbing in .
“You should press down harder,” Xiao Xingchen says, setting down the empty flute, and Song Lan inclines his head. Xiao Xingchen slides one hand over Song Lan’s fingers, directing their path, his palm hovering over the back of Song Lan’s hand. Xiao Xingchen’s other hand -- his other hand --
Xue Yang gasps when he finds it curled around his cock. Xiao Xingchen thumbs at the precome, makes a show of licking it off his fingers before palming at Xue Yang’s cock lazily. This -- this, here.
The shape of Xiao Xingchen’s desire is this: It’s Xue Yang, shoulders askew, elbows digging into thin air, his thighs spread almost impossibly wide, his stomach -- god, Xue Yang shifts, and it’s the one-two-punch of the slosh and the distension and the way his skin is so tight with how full he is -- it’s this that has Xiao Xingchen tighten his hand around Xue Yang’s cock, jerking him off in quick, clean strokes. This is what Xiao Xingchen has been working towards all day.
This: the potential of it -- the moment before, the moment right before, when Xue Yang is wound up, when he’s gripping at the seat, when he’s keening and making impossible sounds -- So-o-ong La-aa-an , he’s crying, and somehow it merges, somehow it twists in the air and he’s whimpering out Xiao--hic--hic--Xingchennnn .
The sounds clog up in Xue Yang’s throat and Xiao Xingchen imagines shoving his hand down Xue Yang’s throat and pulling out the words and stringing the sentences around them until the three of them are necklaced in the fragments of Xue Yang’s want, in his need, in the way his cock is throbbing.
They’re here now. They’re here; they’re here and Xue Yang approaches his orgasm as if he’s having it ripped out of him, guts first. He comes with Song Lan hands slanted into his pelvis, Xiao Xingchen’s other hand twisting his cock short and sweet. The noises that Xue Yang makes are too filthy for Xiao Xingchen to describe, but the way that the come splashes across the trembling mess of his thighs is so satisfying that it takes Xiao Xingchen a moment to notice that Xue Yang is crying into it, whimpering from the sensation.
Xiao Xingchen feels something hot inside him uncurl, and he wipes away a cheek wet with tears before plucking the wine glass from the counter. Fuck fuck fuck, Xue Yang is heaving but he grows silent as soon as the glass is pressed up against his cock.
Xiao Xingchen nods as Song Lan rises and stands behind Xue Yang. He wraps his arms around Xue Yang’s middle like this: tall body half-bent over, nose nuzzling where Xue Yang’s shoulder meets his neck, two palms spread across the entire stretch of Xue Yang’s belly.
“Xue Yang,” Song Lan says, his voice muffled. Xiao Xingchen keeps his eyes on Xue Yang, who looks helpless, looks halfway feral. His mouth is bared in a growl but no sound comes out. He swallows, and Xiao Xingchen feels another smile spread itself across his face.
“You’ll have to piss at some point,” Xiao Xingchen says quietly. The little breath that Xue Yang had been holding escapes his lips in a puff. Xiao Xingchen presses the rim of the glass, nudging it into the underside of Xue Yang’s cock, and here -- he catches Song Lan’s eye once more -- and here, here , Xiao Xingchen places his free hand over one of Song Lan’s large palms, and together they press down, hard and sharp and inexorable, as one.
Maybe Xue Yang screams. Maybe he begs -- if he does, Xiao Xingchen wouldn’t be surprised. He doesn’t hear anything though, because for a moment, the world before him falls away and it’s just this: it’s Xue Yang pissing into the wine glass with a force so strong that it splashes around the sides. The liquid churns, heating the glass until its fever-warm, and Xiao Xingchen watches as it quickly fills and spills over, running down his fingers and leaking all over the tiled floor.
It feels as if Xue Yang pisses forever, even as Song Lan continues to press his palm in-in-in. It’s as if Xue Yang is being wrung dry -- truly, wrung dry -- his stomach no longer looks distended; if Xiao Xingchen were to massage the flesh along his stomach, he knows he’ll find ridges of hard-won abdominals. Still, Xue Yang is flushed, still vibrating, his knees twitching and his fingers strangling the seat of his chair.
“Good boy,” Xiao Xingchen murmurs, once the stream whittles itself down to a trickle. If Xiao Xingchen looks -- really looks -- he knows he’ll catch a stray pulse of Xue Yang’s cock, but there isn’t time -- there isn’t time because Xue Yang moans and the sound is pornographic because the entire scene -- curtain closing, Xiao Xingchen thinks -- the entire scene is just bigger than he had imagined. He shouldn’t be surprised; after all, Xue Yang and Song Lan continue to just leap outside his frame of reference. They push every single limit, every single dream of his off the brink. It’s a bit like falling, Xiao Xingchen thinks, and it’s no different here -- all three of them in this kitchen, damp with everything that Xue Yang had drank for them. An explosion of sunshine, of hot-hot-need streaming through Xue Yang.
There’s just one final scene. One final scene to tie up the diorama before him: Xue Yang’s cock sitting in the glass, the warm piss sloshed halfway up the length.
Gently, Xiao Xingchen sets the glass down. He twines his fingers with Song Lan’s and Xue Yang’s, slick with come and piss, and he sweeps them across Xue Yang’s empty stomach, his hollow hips, the crescent of skin below his belly button. Xiao Xingchen pulls Xue Yang so that the three of them are standing, and then he guides them into the bathroom.
The water is hot. Steaming. It fogs up the mirror and crawls along their skin even as they take turns underneath the showerhead. It’s easy, here, to take Xue Yang once more as the water blasts at their backs. It chatters down their bodies in curtains, trickling into their eyelashes, sogging up their lips and their ears, and tickling the air in between gasped kisses.
When he fills Xue Yang with his cock, timing it with the unerring slide of Song Lan’s cock into Xue Yang’s waiting mouth, Xiao Xingchen thinks of Xue Yang’s hot piss, how it’d leaked, how hot it was. He imagines a cloud of it, pouring down on them from above and bathing them in Xue Yang’s shuddering need.
Xiao Xingchen opens his mouth when he finally comes and imagines. He imagines that wetness seeping into their bodies, staining them with the inside of Xue Yang, and he comes -- he comes and he comes and he comes.
###
They nap. At some point in the early evening, their air conditioner had ground to a stop, and the humidity thickens the air until summer’s sweat rolls across their bodies. Xue Yang is fast asleep, his eyelids flickering in a dream that has his wrists twisted and chest tight. His head is turned towards the wall, and his neck is a fragile, bird-like thing. It makes Xiao Xingchen’s fingers itch.
It’s quiet though, and for now, Xiao Xingchen is sated. He nuzzles his face into the chalice of Xue Yang’s armpit and breathes deeply. The mustiness is something that sticks to the insides of his nostrils, like damp underwear. It’s a natural smell though -- as natural as Xue Yang gets: cigarette smoke and crushed violets. It’s something that smells better when it’s being pulverized. When it’s being crushed.
“Stop thinking,” Song Lan mutters behind him. One arm comes down to rest heavily on Xiao Xingchen’s chest and the weight of it feels like an anchor. Xiao Xingchen says nothing, just digs his nails into the center of Song Lan’s palm until he unearths a satisfying gasp.
In an hour or two, the sky will bleed until it grows dark, and then they’ll each get up: Song Lan first to clean up the mess of the kitchen; then Xiao Xingchen who’ll tongue his way down Xue Yang’s ribs. It’ll be a quiet night: Xue Yang will prep the vegetables they’ve bought, and they’ll all end up sprawled across the couch.
It’ll be domestic. Calm. Xiao Xingchen will sink into the firmer part of the couch and rub his hands across Song Lan’s open thighs and along the set of Xue Yang’s collarbones. He’ll smile during a commercial break and tuck an incisor into the notch of Xue Yang’s throat before swapping spit with Song Lan’s cavernous mouth.
Xue Yang will tease him, nudging him at his ribs.
What’s so funny, Xingchen? he’ll ask with his wildflower eyes. Xiao Xingchen will hum out a non-response but he’ll smile nonetheless.
Monday awaits, and with it a world of possibility.