Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Qiu Dingjie is the textbook definition of a Good Boy.

He remembers to call his parents at least once a week, he helps old grannies across the street; he’s punctual, never rude, and he’s never given anyone a hard time, barring that one time he accidentally shortchanged a dumpling vendor by 5 yuan. By all accounts, he checks all the boxes. He’s the kind of Good Boy you’d take home to meet your parents.

Qiu Dingjie believes in karma, and that good things happen to those who wait, work hard, and have an endless supply of smiles to give. Unfortunately, he’s also picked the worst trade in the world in what is possibly the worst time in history.

Being an actor in this economy is nothing short of being a circus monkey— performing tricks for a paltry sum, and then doing it all over again the next day for even less: a masochist's ritual in humiliation. But he loves the craft, and he loves a good story. Performing onstage doesn’t always pay the bills, but there’s magic in storytelling, in using his body and his words to move even the hardest of hearts.

All the world’s a stage, and the real tragedy is that one can’t simply survive on stories, no matter how good the telling. A man needs to eat. A man needs to pay the rent and not have to lie about his success in the big city, but that’s neither here nor there, and what his grandma doesn’t know won’t kill her before she’s ready.

There is one thing that pays the rent, much as Qiu Dingjie loathes to admit it, but in leaner months, sometimes it’s his only lifeline. It’s also the only thing that doesn’t fit into his flawless Good Boy image, but in his defense, things are tougher in Shanghai where everyone and their mother is just trying to eke out a living. Shanghai can be mean and unfriendly, and spit you out if you’re one of the weak ones.

Qiu Dingjie tries to live by his motto of if at first you don’t succeed…

Unfortunately, it’s gotten him into some really peculiar places, doing even more peculiar things, working for a Sichuan restaurant and being stuffed into a dumpling costume while handing out flyers being among them.

And alas, it’s the end of the month again, and the rent is due. Rent is always due. There’s no end in sight. And as usual when his pockets are empty and his bank account is dangerously close to the negatives: there’s only one solution.

The stage is his mistress, and she calls.

Qiu Dingjie remembers a time when he told himself he was only going to do this just the once.

But just the once, turned into maybe one more time, and then there was last Christmas when he was strapped for cash and couldn’t come home to Nanping, and then six months later, it’s practically become a vocation.

Vocation might be stretching it though; he tries to exercise some level of restraint. Rules are important; it’s how he knows he’s not completely lost control of his life. So he does it on a schedule, in a frequency that he deems acceptable: once every two weeks, just so he has enough cash to tide him over. He isn’t planning to turn this into a full-time career; he just needs to make rent. Dishwashing jobs aren’t cutting it, because he’s not working enough hours to qualify for a livable wage. Half his time is split between attending auditions and working whatever part time job is hiring.

Working full time wouldn’t give him the flexibility he needs to network and get his name out in the right circles. Besides, he has a theater degree: tech and finance companies aren’t exactly chomping at the bit to hire aspiring actors, even ones from prestigious universities, unless it’s to mop the floors or work security, and even those jobs often require some type of qualification or experience.

So filming himself like a degenerate it is, to an audience of— he squints at the screen: two tonight, which is already one person too many. It’s usually just the one guy—or XX99 as he calls himself. He’s always online whenever Qiu Dingjie is, right on schedule, and he’s very generous with his virtual coins. He’s Qiu Dingjie’s most consistent patron: never asks for anything outrageous, always cheers him on, also really the only person watching despite Qiu Dingjie’s abysmal production.

There’s hardly any privacy to be had in a four bedroom apartment where the walls have both the structural integrity and soundproofing of cardboard. Space is also rather limited: Qiu Dingjie can measure the entire breadth of his room by taking two large strides. Lengthwise he just has enough space for a dresser, a rickety stool, and a double decker bed that creaks like a rusty hinge: the top bunk is where he keeps all the clutter— his suitcase, boxes he has yet to take to the recycling center, piles of unwashed laundry that’s been sitting there for days, starting to reek; the bottom is where he sleeps and films.

Qiu Dingjie doesn’t have the budget to buy himself fancy toys, so it’s just the one butt plug he got on sale off Taobao that’s seen better days. He jerks himself off and tries to make it last: that’s usually how this goes.

Sometimes, if he’s feeling adventurous he fingers himself— one finger, and then two, and if he’s relaxed enough, he’s able to work himself up to three. He only ever films himself from the neck down, and makes sure to completely anonymise his setup—the posters on the wall are covered up with a blanket, the lamp is hidden in the dresser drawer; the dresser drawer is pushed out of frame when he films — and for good measure, he wears a mask of a cartoon tiger that he’d bought from a street stall. If he can help it, he never makes a sound.

Occasionally the mattress will squeak from any repetitive movement, but he’s gotten better at navigating around that, propping his leg on the wall opposite and rolling his hips as soundlessly as he can to intermittent success, centering his ah, rather intimate bits in the frame because that’s what the people come here to see.

Compared to other performers, his setup is modest, but what he lacks in fanfare, he makes up for in run time, sometimes going up to an hour and making himself hover on the precipice until he loses all control, finishing all over himself with a stifled grunt.

XX99 doesn’t seem to mind; or if he does he’s never said anything. He’s there whenever Qiu Dingjie is online, and the pinging noise that signals his arrival is enough to make Qiu Dingjie’s heart leap up his throat. He likes the idea that he’s not completely alone, that somewhere in the city there’s a person watching, always waiting for him and keeping him company, never taking his eyes off the screen.

Of course XX99 could very well be a middle aged lecherous uncle with a wife and a kid, but Qiu Dingjie has always been a romantic soul, despite notions to the contrary, and he likes to think of XX99 as someone his age: just a regular guy he might pass on the street, or on the train, living day to day, adrift just like he is like a kite caught in an updraft, a nameless face in a city of millions. Working and surviving.

He can be anyone.

XX99 has asked for his personal xiaohongshu account once, but Qiu Dingjie is careful to keep this part of his life separate from his real one. This is just something he does for money when things get dire as they are wont to do in this economy: it’s not a chosen hobby.

There’s freedom in it, however, a kind of catharsis he only ever experiences when he’s onstage performing for an audience, or auditioning for a role. But unlike the kind of acting he’s used to, under the heat of stage lights and in the company of other thespians, here the anonymity strips him of his usual inhibitions and allows him more grace; he can be as coy as he wants, or a level of shameless that would’ve ordinarily made him want to dig himself a hole in the ground to lie in. He can be cute; he can tease his audience by squirming his hips, tracing the blunt end of his butt plug along his perineum before plunging it incrementally inside until it’s fully sheathed.

There are times when Qiu Dingjie invests in props: a cheap shimmery necktie that gives the appearance of silk dangling between his exposed chest—XX99’s favourite. A black waistcoat, buttoned up—but no undershirt. Once, a pair of mesh women’s panties with the most delicate scallop trim that he had to wash by hand in the dead of night while all his roommates were still asleep after he’d gotten them soaked during a session.

XX99 had liked those too though he seems to prefer more masculine touches—like Qiu Dingjie’s jockstrap paired with the tube socks that he always wears to cover the tattoo on his ankle, or Qiu Dingjie in nothing but gym shorts, which is his preferred way of starting a session when his heart just isn’t in it.

Usually XX99 can tell if he’s distracted despite having a limited view of his face, jumping in to message him privately about whether something’s the matter. But Qiu Dingjie is nothing if not a consummate professional, and the show must go on through rain, sleet, or snow, his lack of enthusiasm notwithstanding.

Tonight is a special night however; his most beloved patron has sent him a toy. Or rather: enough virtual coins to finally invest in one. XX99 had linked him to the product page of the exact item he wanted, and his donation had covered not just its exact amount but any associated shipping fees should Qiu Dingjie have it delivered to an address in the city or a remote village in rural Hebei. Now, not only is Qiu Dingjie in possession of a silicone phallus the size and heft of a baby’s arm, but he can also afford to splurge on real, premium meat for the next two weeks. Truly, fate rewards those who are pure of heart.

The thing—the toy— is intimidating, however. He’s tested it only once before this live performance. Every actor worth their salt rehearses before a show. Qiu Dingjie doesn’t want to seem overly familiar with the toy as it diminishes the appeal of him trying it “for the first time”, so he doesn’t test it again, even though it took him at least half an hour to get it fully inside that first time and he’d developed a cramp in his thigh, afterwards.

XX99 will probably be able to tell he’s done the work already—the guy seems to have a preternatural ability to see through his deceptions. Qiu Dingjie will simply try his best to put on a great performance. People want him sweet and clumsy, but a little spirited; he can give them what they want; he can sell them the fantasy.

So he adjusts the lights around him on the bed, tugs on his mask, opens the blasted app that’s been his saviour and nemesis both, flips on his phone camera to selfie-mode, and begins:

The first time Qiu Dingjie had done this, he was convinced everyone on the street could tell just by looking at his face. A roommate had even asked whether he was moving furniture the night before, and ever since then Qiu Dingjie vowed to never make a peep. Of course, that means he got some complaints for hardly ever emoting on camera— though none from XX99 who seems happy just to shower him with hearts, coins, and the occasional pair of swinging tassels he likes to pin on Qiu Dingjie’s chest.

So Qiu Dingjie bought a bluetooth mic to combat the negative reviews and keep his audience—of two, sometimes seven if he’s lucky—happy. He keeps it clipped next to the jade pendant hanging around his neck, the only personal item innocuous enough that won’t give his identity away. He has it on now, a balm against his heated skin, sitting between the valleys of his shuddering chest—another veil of artifice as he pretends to already be out of breath. It’s a half truth at least; it’s hot in his room because of how cramped it is. He can feel sweat beading his temples, dampening his hairline despite the fact he’s already dressed down to just his socks and boxers.

He flashes the dildo on screen—a fleshy, jiggling column of blue silicone with a tapered base. Eight inches. And a half. He says a prayer to whomever might be listening. He won’t put it in, of course—at least not yet. Qiu Dingjie is not an amateur; he knows how to stir up his audience. He needs to build up suspense, tease people into a frenzy. He has to work his way up to the good parts—otherwise, it’ll just be a flash in the pan; he can’t have everyone leaving early.

Four years of formal training, and he’s selling his body to anyone who might be watching. But stranger things have happened, he supposes, and at least he hasn’t devolved to selling photos of his feet.

Qiu Dingjie runs the head of the dildo against his bare torso, tracing lazy patterns around his peaking nipples; he wraps his tongue around the bulbous head, sucking until his lips plump up in a lovely flush. He’s rehearsed this too, in front of the narrow strip of mirror attached to the back of his door. He doesn’t want to look like he’s trying too hard; there’s an art to looking just the right amount of desperate. Too much and it devolves into the territory of grotesque—but the right combination of eager and earnest and those coins will be raining down in an absolute deluge.

So he settles into his usual rhythm, wiping his mind clean of extraneous thought as he sucks on the toy. With his free hand, he tugs his boxers off so he’s sitting on his pelvis facing his phone that’s mounted on a selfie stick clamped to the bed post. It’s a low budget setup, but it works for now. After yanking on his cock a few times, he’s finally hard enough to proceed to the next stage. Lubricating an eight and a half inch dildo is no easy feat, considering how Qiu Dingjie has to ensure he does it in an alluring and yet innocent way.

He can’t seem too experienced—that’ll take people out of the fantasy. Therefore he must act according to these projections: a young man wanting cock, and wanting cock now, but too afraid of the real thing so he has to resort to a toy. Naughty but sweet, deviant but not unhinged. It’s hard to predict what his audience will respond to, but Qiu Dingjie, after some trial and error, now has it down to a science. He shows his darling crowd — of two — his hole: flushed, daring, winking with each tremulous breath. He’d waxed for this—the worst time of the month is when he has to for these performances.

Now he’s baring everything: every wrinkle and crease, the moles flecking the inside of his thighs. He presses the head of the dildo to his opening after making slow, careful swipes across his perineum.

The thing is bigger than his own cock and more than a little intimidating, but the first inch slides smoothly in, thanks to the lube he’d prepped with minutes before the performance. He feels some of that wetness ease the friction, grateful for his own foresight. Two inches in and he bites his lip, blowing out a shaky breath. Three, and the burn has started, his toes clenching and unclenching on the sheets. When it’s six inches deep, his heels have all but lifted off the mattress, his sweat pouring harder than ever.

He’s still at half-mast, but now wracked with indecision. Does he put it inside all the way and give everyone what they came for? Or does he act coy and leave the rest of it jutting out?

Qiu Dingjie forces himself to relax. He’s done this before; it’s fine. He’s already at the twenty minute mark and his audience is still playing along with him. Qiu Dingjie blinks one eye open and spies the corner of the screen where XX99 has started spamming him with rainbow hearts. That gets a chuckle out of him. At least it’s not tassels on his nipples again.XX99 has an odd sense of humour, but Qiu Dingjie likes to think it’s XX99’s way of breaking the ice.

Bracing himself, Qiu Dingjie gives the base one final shove. His hips twitch upwards, his breath chokes out of him, tears spring to his eyes in the corners as it’s finally sheathed—all eight inches of it. And the stubborn half inch. His eyes are not the only thing that’s wet; there’s his cock too, filling up to attention and beading at the head. The screen is filled with even more hearts. Encouraged, Qiu Dingjie starts moving the dildo by the base, pulling it out a few inches before nudging it back in. It’s uncomfortable until it isn’t, and he can sink into a mindless rhythmic pleasure that builds and builds. He doesn’t even have to touch himself; that’s also precisely what the audience had come for. They like to see him come from just playing with his ass.

Depending on how fired he is, he can go on for half an hour, sometimes more, pulling himself to the edge until he’s desperate to finish. Tonight seems like one of those nights. He tugs at his nipples with his free hand, but makes sure he doesn’t touch his cock.

Meanwhile, he undulates his hips, showing his audience how deep the toy has gone inside of him. The base is a blue cheeky thing stoppering his hole. If he puts on some clothes and goes outside, no one would know he has this thing inside of him. Not his roommates, or the aunties selling chicken skewers at the market, or the kindly old granny that lives two floors below who calls him handsome and asks, whenever they run into each other on the landing, if he’s got a girlfriend. Qiu Dingjie will keep this a secret: it’s something he’ll take to the grave with him, not just the fact he does this shameful thing for money, but also that he likes men.

When he pulls the toy out completely by the base, he can feel himself clench reflexively, the loss so keen that he lets out an authentic whimper, his hips twitching. It goes on that way for the next ten minutes; it can get repetitive, but sometimes, if Qiu Dingjie tries hard enough he gets lost in his thoughts and forgets he’s got a captive audience.

He’s never had sex like this before. His two disastrous encounters are long in the past, both under the influence of alcohol, and one of them with a woman. None of them had him playing with the back like this. If he had to describe these encounters, he’d use words like “respectable”, “unremarkable” and even “embarrassing”.

Jerking off to an audience has actually been more enjoyable because he won’t run into the problem of having to face any of his watchers the next day. It’s awkward when things go south and you have to see the person the next day—at work, or in school, or on your commute.

So Qiu Dingjie lets his mind drift as he plays. He acts coy tonight because it seems to be fitting, and he says things like ahnn ahnnn it’s so big!, and ah ah look at it disappear inside wahhh it’s so naughty, I’m so embarrassed. Things that, in real life, he would hop in front of a train for if he were ever caught saying them. He says another fervent prayer in his mind in hopes that his ancestors won’t disown him.

Then he leans back and thinks of the meat cuts he plans to buy once those digital coins are converted to genuine usable currency.

Qiu Dingjie works part time at a convenience store—one of those bigger chains that’s always hiring, but he likes it there because the store manager is friendly, gruff around the edges, true, but warm once you get to know him. He also works the night shift, which is less busy than the regular hours.

The store gets all kinds after midnight—tech guys grinding the 996 life, drunks trickling in from nearby bars, the occasional student on their way home from the Internet Café, uniforms rumpled and askew. Part of his job is just to stand there, manning the register, which means he can work on his CV if foot traffic is low enough. He’s alone for the first hour of his shift, so if there aren't any customers, he mops the floors or reshelves inventory.

All in a day’s work, and that’s why the store manager loves him. He’s idle but not for too long, striking that perfect balance of productivity that doesn’t veer into overwork.

It’s two am on a Wednesday, and with it not being too busy, Qiu Dingjie begins his usual task of the day: stamping price tags onto new shipments of merchandise— cup noodles, spicy snacks, and a whole box of those imported yogurt cups that only one person ever comes in to buy. He leaves those last, and is about halfway finished labeling all the cup noodles and putting them up on the shelves when the doors slide open to welcome a customer.

The grating pop jingle starts to play, and Qiu Dingjie stands on his toes to peer over the shelf at his interloper. It’s the gloomy guy Qiu Dingjie has been eyeing for over a month now. He never says anything, always wears black, and stares at Qiu Dingjie without ever blinking, giving him, not the creeps, exactly, but the distinct feeling he would be followed into the next alley and knifed if he wasn’t careful on his way home. Qiu Dingjie waits a beat, and then another, before sighing and heading over. He doesn’t greet him; that’s not keeping to their ritual, a month into the same stilted, awkward interactions.

The gloomy guy is squatted next to the display fridge, skimming his fingers over the yogurt selection. He has long, slender fingers, always smudged with some type of residue. Paint, Qiu Dingjie thinks, and maybe that means gloomy guy works as a painter, though he doesn’t have the look of one. His clothes are monochromatic but it’s clear they’re good quality, despite being frayed at the hemline or the sleeves, which seems more of an aesthetic choice than due to wear and tear.

Qiu Dingjie watches him turn the yogurt cups over and examine each one, going through their entire selection like he can’t seem to make up his mind between purple rice and the more seasonal mid-autumn flavours. After about five minutes of watching this, Qiu Dingjie finally clears his throat to end the struggle.

Gloomy Guy pauses, and then slowly looks over his shoulder, a lingering sweeping gaze that starts from Qiu Dingjie’s feet and travels all the way up to his torso, before finally, his face. There’s that same expression Qiu Dingjie is already expecting: the half-lidded eyes, dull and unfeeling, the thin lips pulled to a tauter, grim line. Did Qiu Dingjie do anything to offend this guy? Really, why is he unhappy all the time? He comes here every night for the same brand and flavour of yogurt but it takes him about fifteen minutes to pick a cup.

Qiu Dingjie forces himself to smile; working in customer service gives anyone the patience of a saint, and despite being already patient to begin with, some people just try to make your day worse for the hell of it. He won’t put Gloomy Guy in this category, because it’s just how he is, but Qiu Dingjie can’t help but feel some type of way each time he comes in. Entirely self-aware and agitated, even though he isn’t being watched and Qiu Dingjie is the one doing the watching himself.

“Boss,” he says, in that simpering customer service tone he’s come to resent. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

As if he doesn’t know. As if Gloomy Guy buys anything else but yogurt. Gloomy Guy is silent for the longest five seconds of Qiu Dingjie’s life, then, without rising from his squat, asks, “Yogurt,” he says. “The Korean brand. Banana flavour.”

“Ah,” says Qiu Dingjie. Of course. “We just got a shipment of them today. I haven’t unpacked them yet, but how many did you want?”

Gloomy guy pauses. “Just one.”

“...”

Qiu Dingjie’s lips twitch. The store manager’s voice filters into his ear the customer is always right! Even when they’re not. Right, right. There is that. He excuses himself to the back. The stock room is really just a shoebox closet of unopened merchandise, with boxes teetering haphazardly in all directions, crammed with cleaning equipment. He finds the box of Korean yogurt, labeled in its original Hangul, sitting in the corner among the detritus. He hefts it into his arms, turning on his heel — only to abruptly crash into Gloomy Guy. Crash is not an exaggeration as Gloomy Guy seemed to have had the bright idea of following him to the stock room without regard for personal space.

Qiu Dingjie yelps as he collides into the surprisingly firm body behind him. Arms fly around his waist to catch him before he stumbles, and he manages not to let the box slip from his grasp despite the awkward encounter. Whole moments pass, which in reality is probably just seconds.

Qiu Dingjie is the first one to move, wriggling out of Gloomy Guy’s grip with some shifty-eyed mumbling and then escaping behind the counter so he can pry the box open with a cutter and label one cup of yogurt for purchase. He doesn’t even know if it’s any good; Gloomy Guy is the only reason they have to replenish their stock, buying one every time but never more.

Gloomy Guy follows Qiu Dingjie to the counter, walking over with such casual slowness Qiu Dingjie’s eyelid starts to visibly twitch. What is this, an idol drama? These things only happen on Douyin. He flicks his gaze upwards when Gloomy Guy’s shadow looms over. “Just the one, you said?”

Gloomy Guy doesn’t even nod. “Mn.”

Qiu Dingjie sighs. He scans the barcode on the cup, and is about to ring up the purchase when Gloomy Guy says, “Wait.”

Qiu Dingjie waits. “I’d like to buy another one.”

Qiu Dingjie can’t help it; he lifts an eyebrow in surprise. He takes another cup from the box, tags and then scans it along with Gloomy Guy’s Alipay QR code, but before he’s able to bag both items, Gloomy Guy swipes the first cup from his hand and stuffs it in the front pocket of his hoodie.

“You don’t want a bag?” Qiu Dingjie asks.

Gloomy Guy shakes his head. “That one’s for you,” he says, and then starts walking away without waiting for a receipt.

Qiu Dingjie is too stunned to reply, much less blink when Gloomy Guy stops at the door and tilts his head at him, his eyes glittering as the watery light of the store hits them, perfectly in sync with his next words: “Nice necklace, by the way.”

Something about his inflection makes Qiu Dingjie clutch at the jade pendant hanging from his neck, heart beating rapidly, his pulse sounding in his ears. After Gloomy Guy leaves, Qiu Dingjie finally allows himself to breathe, slumping in the plastic chair behind the counter where he fans himself with a piece of cardboard and rakes a hand through his hair.

Really, what did Gloomy Guy even mean by that?

Qiu Dingjie doesn’t obsess over it for more than two days.

He has bigger fish to fry, namely, preparing for an audition for a modelling gig. A haircut is too expensive so he trims his fringe himself, doing a passable job of it in the bathroom so that he no longer looks like a scraggly sheepdog. Then the clothes: he’s usually in comfortable cottons and loose linens, but he borrows a proper “outfit” from Jiang Heng who’s done enough of these modelling jobs that he gets free stuff all the time—none of them useful or tradeable, but his closet is a veritable cornucopia, filled with suits, jackets, and clothing to cover all seasons.

Today Qiu Dingjie is in a pair of proper tailored slacks and a crisp white button down, his hair tamed for the occasion, his face not bare for once. He doesn’t usually wear makeup but his diet has been so poor lately that he’s started getting breakouts.

A few bumps don’t usually bother him, but these casting agents are brutal. They want their models perfectly airbrushed, ready for consumption, not a strand of hair out of place, cleanly shaven and often pale as ghosts. Qiu Dingjie dabs a spot of concealer on his nose and his upper lip with a pinky, just as the tutorial on Douyin had suggested. On the train to Xintiandi, he gets some looks when he starts applying a lip plumper in a berry shade— moms whispering to their kids not to look, middle-aged men subtly leering— but he doesn’t care: he needs this job.

The agency office is located south of the district, in the heart of all the corporate bustle, amidst rows of identical buildings—testament to the city’s postmodern love affair with glass. Inside the chrome-shiny lobby, there’s a small crowd of hopeful recruits, all dressed in business casual and brimming with nervous energy. Qiu Dingjie stifles the urge to pivot on his heel and leave. Or worse yet: vomit. Everyone here is a stunner, and he says that as a statement of fact: they’re all roughly the same height, of similar builds, with faces that would hardly look out of place plastered on the sides of buses or on billboards along Xizang Road. Some of them even look familiar. He’s probably seen their faces on a magazine or on ads on XHS.

A man wearing an earpiece and holding a tablet appears as soon as he arrives, to give them all a look of frank appraisal, pausing a beat once his gaze slides over to Qiu Dingjie as if he doesn’t already feel singled out by being just slightly above the required weight class.

“I—” Qiu Dingjie starts, but he’s quickly interrupted by the sound of a door opening, someone coming in.

Qiu Dingjie can see the person from an angle if he cranes his neck just right, but then his view is suddenly obstructed by another recruit, standing too close for comfort and crowding him from behind.

“Settle down, settle down. Aiya! Does it look like you’re at a street market? Everyone sit down! Interviews will begin in five minutes. The boss has just arrived.” The man gestures vaguely behind him. “When your name is called, head to the room down the hall to be interviewed. In the meantime, help yourself to some tea and snacks.”

Everyone murmurs agreeably; no one asks any questions. The man leaves, though waddles is a more apt description. He seems entirely out of place in this setting, as if plucked from the set of a Hong Kong gangster movie, complete with the gold chain and nicotine-stained teeth, and speaking in the brusque, desultory tones of someone who’s lived a hard life.

Qiu Dingjie waits along with everybody, with nothing else to do and nowhere else to be. Such is the life of men in their prime. He plays games on his phone, checks Weibo, fixes his hair, and fidgets.

An hour passes, and then another, long and wrought with tension as they’re summoned one after the other like lambs to the chopping block. He finally gives in to the urge and escapes to the nearest convenience store to buy himself a pack of cigarettes. Quitting smoking has always been a vague resolution, but he tries not to indulge often, as it’s an expensive habit as well as an unhealthy one. Right now, his excuse is that he needs to give his hands something to do, otherwise he’d start tearing at his hair.

There’s a convenience store nearby where everything is just slightly overpriced because it caters to the more touristy crowd. Qiu Dingjie smokes his cigarette in an alley, just behind the agency office.

Dustbins line the walls, their rubber lids overflowing with bits of garbage. There he blows smoke rings into the air as he squats on the ground and indulges in another bad habit: overthinking. He should probably just go. Look for another work opportunity. He knows he won’t get it; he hasn’t booked a modelling job in months.

In his first year in Shanghai, he only ever acted as an extra in a commercial for distilled water. The main actor that was cast was a seasoned veteran who clearly had some work done, his features so uncanny even without the added filters that Qiu Dingjie couldn’t help but stare at him the entire time until he was reprimanded by the director. But that’s what the public wants, apparently. Soft focus, dewy eyes, a vague untouchable flawlessness that would ascend actors into godhood. It’s all about the fantasy, selling a story. Not so different from his “side job”.

Nearly three years ago Qiu Dingjie had left home, with the vain hope of pursuing an acting career. The suitcase he took was crammed full of his life’s belongings, and he waved goodbye to his family, a hand lifted in a vague farewell as his hometown shrunk out of sight and the intercity bus puttered along an abysmally grey road, towards an expansive skyline that was going to bring him his prize. It was foolish of him to think it was going to be easy after that, that fate would be kind to him just because he did good work and checked all the right boxes. Shanghai didn’t care. Shanghai would spit anyone out whose resolve wasn’t made of steel, before trampling on their hopes and dreams for good measure.

He worked himself to the bone in those first few months, doing anything just to scrape by. Anything meant: odd jobs here and there, be it bussing tables or washing dishes in restaurants with more than a few health code violations, getting his shoes wet from the constant slosh of sudsy water he was often up to his elbows in. The restaurants all looked the same, the only difference being the colours of the flooring underfoot, cracked and caked in grime that hasn’t been swept since the tiles were laid: low ceilings, poor ventilation, and tables crammed where they shouldn’t fit—everyone yelling, the air in the kitchen humid from curlicues of oil and steam, and the pay just barely enough for rent.

The apartments weren’t any better, as he’d found out, and it was only through sheer luck that he’d found this one near enough to the city center. Jiang Heng had been one of the models auditioning for the same job, and after bumping into him three times, they got to talking. Turns out, his roommate was running some type of illegal gambling business from his room and fled into the night before the police got involved.

Qiu Dingjie moved in the following week, from a 5 bedroom apartment shared with 10 other people all with varying levels of hygiene, to a 4 bedroom bedsit where he got his own room that, when it got hot enough, still smelled suspiciously like cannabis.

Things were looking up, or so he thought, as there’s still the issue of making rent and booking a job in his chosen trade. Modelling can give him access to proper acting jobs, and any type of public recognition can be an advantage. A wider, mass appeal means more people are likely to book him for jobs, although the kind of work Qiu Dingjie prefers is niche and unattainable for most aspiring young actors. He wants the meatier stuff, and the grit, but casting directors take one look at him and his plump lips and bright eyes, and decide he’s too pretty for any genre that isn’t romance.

Perhaps if he moves to Hong Kong, or better yet, Taiwan where some of his extended family lives, he’ll have better opportunities. He hears he’s got a great uncle living in Tainan, making a living as a fishmonger. Maybe Qiu Dingjie should be a fishmonger instead.

These are just the rambling thoughts of someone so strung up in his own anxieties that he’s starting to regret his life choices. When he returns to the lobby, it’s his turn next, and it’s business as usual: they barely look at his portfolio, but examine him critically from head to toe. They take his photo: a headshot, a profile shot, a full-length one, then a back shot. All the shots really; he’s like a piece of meat being dissected, weighed, and assessed at the market.

In the end, they’re all told the agency would be in touch, which is just a polite way of saying they’ll never hear back from them, but hey, maybe in the next life! Dejected, Qiu Dingjie walks to the nearby park after making a quick detour to the supermarket where canned luncheon meat is half off.

He has nowhere else to be for the rest of the day, and his shift at the convenience store doesn’t start until well into the evening, so he can while away his time in this neighborhood he can’t afford to live in. See how well the other side lives, so to speak—it’s research in case he books the part of a spoiled young master. It’s only half past five in the afternoon with some commuters already headed home after working their proper 9-5 desk jobs. Young kids in uniforms pass him by, in groups of twos and threes, girls patting on makeup wearing rollers in their hair, the boys rowdy and elbowing each other, some so immersed playing videos on their phone Qiu Dingjie has to step around them on the sidewalk.

Xintiandi is a home to the affluent; anyone working here can’t afford to live here, not even in their dreams. Every car is electric, sleek and overpriced. Monthly rent costs more than Qiu Dingjie makes half the year, but he’s free to gaze up at the clouds wreathing the glimmering skyscrapers that barricade this neighbourhood from people like him. He wonders, sometimes, what it’s like inside those buildings where everything gleams and shines and everyone smiles at you and calls you boss with the kind of reverence reserved only for the wealthy. The people that live in these buildings will never know what it’s like to live hand to mouth, or work several jobs just to make ends meet, or put your dreams on the back burner in order to pay rent.

Qiu Dingjie is so immersed in his daydreams that his walk takes him east of the river, one hand in his pocket, while the other swings his plastic bag of groceries back and forth. It’s a beautiful afternoon, busy without being too frantic, even if he’s had to dodge cyclists and late-afternoon joggers headed in his direction.

People are gathered on the grass, soaking up the last rays of the sun, or otherwise just enjoying the view; a handful of tourists with professional cameras are crowded around the railings that hem the river, taking pictures and pointing at the private yachts bobbing along the water. And then, under a tree, cross-legged on the ground, is a familiar figure, huddled over a sketchpad. Qiu Dingjie squints, then he squints some more, rubbing his eyes and wishing he’d brought his glasses today. Once he gets close enough to the figure, he almost can’t believe his eyes. It’s hard not to recognise that faint air of doom and gloom, along with the pair of broad shoulders accompanying it.

“Gloomy Guy!” he calls out, and several heads swing in his direction from the sheer volume of his voice. Qiu Dingjie dips his head in embarrassment and waves them off, ambling towards “Gloomy Guy” who never once looks up from his lap. He’s wearing a black hoodie, as usual, the hood pulled over a black cap, wired earphones plugged in. There are rips in the knees of his jeans—artful of course, and his shoes are from a brand Qiu Dingjie recognised but can’t afford. He stands there by his elbow for such a long time, unsure how to proceed, that finally, finally, Gloomy Guy looks up at him. A brief flash of something flickers in his gaze, before quickly being overtaken by one of suspicion. Gloomy Guy quickly covers up his sketchpad with his sleeve before tugging off one earphone. “What do you want?”

Ouch. And here Qiu Dingjie thought Gloomy Guy recognised him. He shakes his head. “Nevermind,” he says, and is about to flee in embarrassment when Gloomy Guy suddenly says, “Wait. I know you.”

At least that! Qiu Dingjie grins in spite of himself. “You work at the convenience store.”

“That’s right, that’s right!” Qiu Dingjie hunkers down next to him on the ground without being invited; the park is free, and the spot shades them from the sun that’s just beginning to set in the horizon. He reaches into his plastic bag and pulls out a can of herbal tea, slightly lukewarm, from the supermarket, and hands it to Gloomy Guy whose eyebrows raise in immediate suspicion. “Want one?”

Gloomy Guy grunts in eloquent answer. Then he puts his pencil down and flips his sketchbook closed before accepting the can. Their fingers brush as he reaches for it, and it opens with a satisfying pop and hiss. Qiu Dingjie has to actively stop himself from staring at Gloomy Guy’s hands; they’re smudged again, grey this time, from the graphite of his pencil.

“Sorry it’s not, you know, ah, your favourite brand of yogurt.”

The corners of Gloomy Guy’s lips twitch in something like an aborted smile. “My diet doesn’t solely revolve around yogurt.”

Qiu Dingjie is surprised he’s capable of stringing more than five words together. This is one of the longest conversations they’ve ever had, as Qiu Dingjie usually gets various permutations of “Do you have the yogurt?” or “Do you take cash?” and even “There’s no banana flavour today.” Never Gloomy Guy volunteering actual information about himself, or making small talk, not even to make bland commentary about the weather—but that’s a thoroughbred Shanghainese for you.

“I didn’t know you were from around here,” says Gloomy Guy, after his first sip of herbal tea. Qiu Dingjie’s rustling pauses but he recovers swiftly enough to fish out a packet of spicy strips from his grocery bag. He tears the seal open with his teeth and spits out the strip of packaging with a puff of air. He misses Gloomy Guy staring at him mildly as a result.

“I’m not from around here,” Qiu Dingjie tells him, clipped. “Do I honestly look like I can afford it on my salary?”

Qiu Dingjie lives just outside of the city center, in a district full of low-rent housing, the buildings fringed on both sides by scaffolding barricading half-finished zoning projects. The neighborhood’s not completely riddled with crime, but it’s not the utopia of the French Quarter either where trees line the sidewalk beautifully and there’s always an assigned street sweeper on every corner. Sometimes at night, the occasional yowl of a street cat in heat accompanies Qiu Dingjie in his dreams. He’s lucky if he’s able to shower with hot water in the morning.

Qiu Dingjie ignores Gloomy Guy’s stare and chews noisily on his latiao. Gloomy Guy hums noncommittally. They sit in silence watching passersby, until the sun truly begins to set and the street lamps start flicking on, one by one by one. The crowds have started to gather—more tourists en masse, this time, a lot of Westerners.

Qiu Dingjie is out of latiao sticks, too. And he’s also just brave enough to ask his first question: “Do you live around here?”

Gloomy Guy nods, his gaze fixed blankly ahead before he turns to look at Qiu Dingjie. This close, Qiu Dingjie is able to notice details about him that he’s missed the first five, six, twelve times. Every encounter at the convenience store is brief, and often Gloomy Guy is either wearing a mask or a pair of glasses without lenses, or avoiding eye contact altogether. The fact he’s actually not so gloomy looking at all is startling: there’s the long, tall nose, and the beauty mark dotting the corner of one eye. He has long lashes too, fine and feathery, and they make his eyes look like a fascinating mix of sleepy and disinterested. He’s not altogether bad-looking. In fact, up close, he’s the exact opposite of bad-looking.

Qiu Dingjie is almost intimidated, and as usual when confronted by someone he finds vaguely attractive, his heart starts to pound, his ears prickle, and the urge to run his mouth grows stronger than ever. The only thing stopping him from flirting is the atmosphere. It’s deader than a funeral house. So cold it pierces through the bone. There’s hardly any spark! Above them, a crow screeches as if to underscore the awkwardness of two men, virtually strangers, sitting next to each other on the grass. Huangpu Park is a haven to young lovers, but though they may be young, lovers they are not.

“My family is from here,” Gloomy Guy says vaguely, which of course sounds like something he would say. Qiu Dingjie doesn’t know why he’d expected anything else, and doesn’t ask what he means by his family. Is he married? Was he born and raised in Shanghai? He has just the slightest accent that makes Qiu Dingjie doubt, but just then, Gloomy Guy’s phone starts ringing in his pocket, cutting off his musings.

Gloomy Guy checks the screen with a frown, before heaving an aggrieved sigh. “I have to go,” he says, abrupt as ever, packing his sketchbook and pencil in a canvas tote bag with a half-finished landscape painting on one side.

Nice chat, Qiu Dingjie thinks wryly. He starts getting up too and mutters about how late it is, and blinks when Gloomy Guy suddenly thrusts out a hand to help him up. He stares at the hand, longer than is probably polite, before taking it half-heartedly. He’s even more surprised by the strength behind the grip as he’s pulled to his feet with barely any effort.

“Ah,” says, Qiu Dingjie, avoiding looking him in the eye so he doesn’t blush too hard. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Gloomy Guy lets his hand go. Qiu Dingjie watches him walk away and huffs, not expecting himself to blurt out an overly friendly, “See you at the store!”

Gloomy Guy doesn’t hear him, of course; he’s too far away. But he does pause mid-step and tilt his head in Qiu Dingjie’s direction.

Still, he doesn’t say anything back and keeps walking.

When it rains, it does indeed pour.

Good luck, bad luck, at this point, Qiu Dingjie’s life is like a badly written sketch. Who even knows. Maybe it is bad karma for masturbating in front of strangers with an eight inch dildo. Correction: eight and a half. The week after he receives an email from the casting agency informing him he didn’t make the cut, Jiang Heng accosts him in the shared kitchen while he’s making egg drop soup and informs him there’s a mold problem.

Qiu Dingjie is sincerely confused why this is news at all when there’s always been a mold problem. He thought it was part of why the rent was inexpensive. “Okay,” he says, shrugging, and then goes back to stirring his soup on the stove.

“Qiu Qiu! Aiya! You don’t understand! We have to move! Soon!” At this point Qiu Dingjie zones out, because Jiang Heng always says he wants to move — any time there’s so much as a problem with the heating or the plumbing, or he hears a strange noise, he curses their absentee landlord and threatens to call the city council.

But it seems like it’s serious this time because Jiang Heng knocks on his door an hour before a “performance”, and tells him it’s urgent. Qiu Dingjie asks if it can wait but Jiang Heng shakes his head somberly.

When Qiu Dingjie emerges from his room, all three roommates are sitting in a circle at the breakfast table as if about to summon the dead; all of them are in various states of undress because summer is fast approaching and the apartment’s AC unit broke down three months ago and hasn’t been repaired since.

Two of Qiu Dingjie’s roommates who both work in a bean curd factory are dressed down to tank tops and sweatpants. Jiang Heng meanwhile is in cargo shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Qiu Dingjie, his ass full of lube, limps towards them in the same oversized shirt he often wears to the gym, and a pair of loose cotton shorts that hides his diminishing erection. When he sits himself down, he hears an audible squelch, thankfully covered up by the sound of the chair scraping against the linoleum.

Jiang Heng, hands steepled, announces it’s not a mold problem. The landlord wants them out of the apartment because he’s sold the property to the company about to bulldoze half the neighbourhood to build a mall. Their landlord capitulated because his wife has been in poor health for awhile, and he needs the funds to pay for her hospital bills. A sad story for sure, but one that leaves them in a bind.

Jiang Heng sighs. “So, we have until the end of the month.”

Qiu Dingjie gapes at him. “The end of the month?!” That’s in two weeks, not enough time to find a suitable living arrangement unless they pool their resources together and look for a place as a unit. Jiang Heng is moving in with his sister in the meantime while their other two roommates hash out a plan to camp out at 24 hour spas until something better comes along.

They all seem far too lackadaisical about it; Qiu Dingjie feels as if he’s the only one taking the news the hardest, but it makes sense, in a way: he’s the most recent transplant, the one who hasn’t lived in Shanghai the longest.

Jiang Heng moved here for university seven years ago, and has some friends and family spread all over; their two roommates are cousins approaching middle-age, unmarried and free of any obligations though they sometimes send money back home in Lijiang. They know what life in the city is like; its constant ebbs and flows. This is not a setback, but almost an expectation. Shanghai is not built for the weak.

While all four of them have been ignoring the fact the central heating only works two times out of ten, and that there is the audible skitter of little feet in the walls, suspected, at first, to be the ghosts of tenants past but more likely mice living in the building, there’s no sweeping this under the rug. It’s final; it’s done. They have to go.

Qiu Dingjie checks his bank account with a resigned sigh as he lumbers back to his room, flopping facedown on the bed. He misses his scheduled stream as a result of the "Roommate Council”, but checks his messages in the app in case there’s any. Just the one message— from XX99 of course, not berating him for not showing up as promised but wishing him well. He also sends some virtual coins worth 500 Yuan in real currency. Qiu Dingjie grins, in spite of himself, sitting up so fast he almost hits his head on the bunk above.

XX99 is still online so he sends him a sticker: a cutesy tiger cub doing a kowtow in thanks.

XX99’s starts typing up a reply. But it’s a series of starts and stops. When he does send his message, it’s curt and to the point: Everything okay?

Strange, how this one person on the other side of the screen seems to be the only one who can intuit Qiu Dingjie’s emotions; but he’s also one of the rare ones to have seen what Qiu Dingjie’s naked ass looks like from every conceivable angle so maybe it’s not so strange after all. Even Qiu Dingjie’s own mother hasn’t seen his ass as up close as XX99, and she had to wash it when he was a kid.

Not great, Qiu Dingjie types, and then sends it before he has a chance to overthink it.

Jiang Heng had promised him the spare floor mattress at his sister’s apartment, but for no more than a few days and only if the apartment hunting doesn’t go so well. Qiu Dingjie is considering lowering his standards and renting a room at one of those 24 hour Internet Cafés that also offer a bed, but most of the rooms he’s seen online are cramped and not built for long term stay, with some suspected to have hidden cameras set up to catch guests engaging in funny business. He’ll need somewhere with enough privacy so he can continue his side hustle; he can’t survive on part time convenience store clerk wages, when he barely has enough to eat without the generous patronage of one XX99.

XX99 starts typing.

Then he stops.

And starts again.

Qiu Dingjie finishes brushing his teeth and XX99 still hasn’t sent his message. He’s about to turn in for the evening when his phone pings on his chest, vibrating softly.

XX99: Anything I can help with?

Qiu Dingjie doesn’t sleep that night; he reads the words over and over again, feeling giddier each time. There is an opportunity here; someone is willing to help. But he doesn’t want to extort XX99— he still has some moral fiber left, despite what he gets up to just to earn a living. He has to be careful; he can’t be too greedy.

Qiu Dingjie mulls over XX99’s offer to help for the next few days, but also keeps his eyes out for listings within his price range. None are, unless he wants to live in a different city removed from where all the acting jobs are, a ninety minute commute one way, not counting switching train lines and traffic. He would also prefer to keep his job at the convenience store. His store manager doesn’t mind it if he clocks in late, or leaves early for an audition. Whenever there’s leftover steamed buns or tea eggs that have been sitting for far too long in the steamer, he gives Qiu Dingjie some to take home.

Shanghai is a city that’s always hungry. If the exorbitant rent doesn’t deter you from living in it, the absolute dearth of jobs that isn’t some tech adjacent soul-sucking 996 nightmare will.

Qiu Dingjie is so close to packing it up and going back home to help his parents run their breakfast stall, but he has to at least try. That’s his mantra these days: try, try, try. No one who’s ever amounted to anything has given up on their dreams, and he has plenty of them, shored up where belief in hard work and earnestness reside. But some days are just hard.

He’s lived in Shanghai for almost three years, and he can feel the drag of the city’s undertow: the ache of working two, sometimes three jobs to sustain himself on top of going to audition after failed audition. He’s always tired; he can’t remember a time when he’s not. Three days of the week, when he doesn’t have a shift at the convenience store, he works as a busboy for a noodle restaurant in Pudong where he never says a word to anyone. Andy Lau is always playing in the kitchen, amidst the hiss and sizzle of industrial-sized woks and the harried yelling of servers demanding their orders.

When the kitchen is short on staff, he helps load the dishes. Most of the time, he’s front of the house, clearing tables with practiced efficiency, darting out of the way of patrons and ensuring he’s invisible as ever. No one who works in this neighbourhood can afford rent within the next three postal codes. Patrons come from affluence, a mix of new money and generational wealth. Meanwhile there are people like Qiu Dingjie barely surviving, living in shoebox sized apartments with three other people, the walls so thin they might as well have been made out of tissue paper.

Whenever he’s allowed a break, he hangs around the back alley and dozes off, or stares into space, thinking about nothing, nothing at all, kicking empty cans and watching birds fight over bits of trash. On the bus ride home, he looks out the window and watches the city slide by in a zoetrope of light and colour.

—And then he falls asleep, jerking upright just in time to get off at his stop. Then he does it all over again.

And again.

And again.

Two days before moving out, Qiu Dingjie messages XX99 back. I might need some help after all.

He does; he’s willing to admit it now. He’s so tired, and for the first time, realises that he has nobody to run to, not in this city, not in any meaningful way. His grandma thinks he’s doing well, and so does the rest of his family back home in Nanping, his parents boasting to everyone who might listen about their son, the famous actor. He’s not even famous on the damned app; the truly popular ones have studio-level productions, rosy lighting, maybe even a whole team of editors, makeup artists, a sound guy; their every pore is smoothed out and their every blemish bleached, the noises they make modulated for optimal viewing and listening pleasure—the perfect vessel for someone’s deepest fantasies, and most depraved desires.

It’s a den of iniquity for sure, with everyone chiming in with their most debauched requests: they want to see everything, but in a palatable, controlled way. A product for consumption; they sing and dance in exchange for coin, and how is that any different from the trade Qiu Dingjie has chosen, where he slips into the shoes of other people and inhabits their lives for moments at a time? He knows how to fake an accent; he can stand like he’s had military training; he can limp like he’s been wounded by a bullet in the leg, and embody the sweet naïveté of a schoolboy just on the cusp of adulthood— all with varying levels of credibility.

In acting school, he’d have kept all of his clothes on, of course. In front of the camera, clothing is a deterrent—audiences are less likely to tune in the more he has on, and even socks are risky, though he’d elected to keep them to hide the tattoo on his ankle.

Qiu Dingjie has yet to find what the secret recipe is. These S-tier stars even come attractively, as if on cue. Qiu Dingjie has seen himself; not only is he an ugly crier, but he makes funny faces when he orgasms. No wonder he’s never booked a job. Everyone in Shanghai is unattainably beautiful. Everyone knows someone.

Minutes pass, and Qiu Dingjie’s thumb hovers over the delete option on the app when XX99’s little icon appears in the corner of the screen, turning from grey to green.

The universe has answered.

How can I help?