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springgreenSpoilers: For the entire series. Very.
Disclaimer: Alas, Mizushiro Setona own these pretty boys.
Summary: Shanghai and Hong Kong during four holidays.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thuviaptarth for Yuletide 2006. I saw it come up on the pinch-hit list and immediately thought, "EEEE!!!! 1999nen! MUST WRITE!" And then I saw Nana and went "EEEEE!" again. And then I saw Her Majesty's Dog. And I thought, "Oh wait. I think I know whose request this is...."
Since this is an incredibly obscure fandom and a) I want people to read my story and b) I adore this series and want to pimp it out to everyone, here are some useful links for information on the manga:
- my write up
- info on getting the scanlations off IRC
I used the solar calendar dates for both Qi Xi and the Dragon Boat Festival, since the mangaka used the solar calendar for Qi Xi in the manga. Also, I think I managed to figure out when the Dragon Boat Festival would have been in 2000, but wasn't entirely sure. I'm probably the only person bothered by this...
I'd like to thankyhlee and edonohana for the incredibly last-minute beta, particularly since neither of them was very familiar with the source.
Shanghai - January 1, 2007
"Three... two... one... Happy new year!"
The rooftop restaurant is filled with chanting, drunk, kissing people. They start to spill out onto the balcony; the alcohol in their blood or the judiciously-placed heat lamps ward off the chill.
Yichun and Lu retreated to the balcony a while ago, and Yichun resents the invasion of their space. He ignores most of the partygoers and elbows the ones who stumble into him. While everyone else cheers, Lu throws his arms around Yichun's waist and hugs him tightly. Yichun presses a brief kiss to the top of Lu's shaggy head. The kid needs a haircut again, he thinks.
Yichun's not one for public displays; they'll celebrate back at home in their own way. Dressed up, Lu is beautiful, the subdued charcoals and silvers so different from the dingy flannels and torn jeans of their Toulon days. He smoothes his hand over Lu's tie and shirt, rough skin snagging on fine silk. He loves the feel of the delicate herringbone pattern woven into the dress shirt, the sheen of high-thread-count cotton, the soft blend of wool and cashmere in the suit jacket. But he would rather be home, lying on polyester bedsheets and tracing Lu's scars.
Despite his old betrayal of the Toulon gang, someone has been strangely kind to them over the past seven years. Yichun had feared increased violence following the takeover of the Xianglongji gang by their rival Toulon, but the streets of Shanghai have been safer ever since that year. And Yichun and Lu have been doing well. Yichun suspects that Xima hasn't forgotten his cousin or his one-time lover, that Xima is the one who booked and paid for the fancy meal at M on the Bund.
He wonders if Dawu and Xiaoxue are celebrating the new year together somewhere. The rational side of him believes that Dawu and Xiaoxue died seven years ago in a back alley of the city; he has always thought Xiaoxue would hurry toward death, no matter how much Yichun tried to protect him and keep him safe. But the child in him, the one who will never stop being Xiaoxue's older brother...
He stops thinking when Lu smiles at him.
They watch the fireworks together. When Yichun looks down at the flame reds and neon greens pooling together in the reflection on the river, he finds that his memory of Xiaoxue's face is blurring.
The river laps peacefully between banks crowded with tourists and merchants selling cheap souveniers, and Yichun shuts his eyes to the past and kisses his future.
Shanghai - July 7, 1996
It's been a year since Xianglong found Dawu. He and Xinsha are still adjusting to the new person in their lives. Xinsha alternates between ignoring Dawu and attempting to relentlessly feed him, and Xianglong is trying to decide if he should bring the son of a druglord into gang life or not.
He won't think too much of the Xianglongji tonight though, not while he's stargazing with Xinsha. She's been asking for time for just the two of them ever since Dawu arrived. Xianglong can't afford diamond rings or jade pendants, not without Chen Guangming's help, and he wants any gift to Xinsha to be from him alone. But right now, his time is his own. He's only offering a plastic bag of takeout swinging from his arm, but his heart is full when he knocks on Xinsha's door.
It's nearly impossible to see anything but the brightest of constellations in the bustling centers of Shanghai, but it only takes a five-minute drive to the outskirts for the night sky to swallow them. Soon, construction will tear up the landscape, and glittering towers for the city's newest inhabitants will rise, but for now, Xianglong navigates via thin strips of light seeping through curtained windows and the stars above.
He and Xinsha sit on the steps of a closed store and solemnly break apart their disposable chopsticks. He watches her carefully pry open the container of sesame sauce and evenly pour it over the cold noodles, helps her mix in the thin slices of chicken and cucumber. Their chopsticks bump against each other; it's awkward and strangely intimate eating out of the same container.
As she's slurping down the noodles, he points out Vega and Altair.
"How do you know?" she asks.
"I asked Dawu to show me last night," he replies.
She doesn't say anything, only kisses him on the cheek. She smells of sesame oil and cucumber.
He catches her mouth with his own, tastes the sauce on her lips. Then he looks at her and asks her to be his vice-boss.
"You're my woman," he says after she agrees.
It isn't as romantic as a bridge of birds or a star-crossed love, but he sees forever in her eyes. It's enough to make him forget that as a gangster, forever isn't something he can offer.
Shanghai - May 5, 2000
Xiaoxue stumbles through the crowded streets, trying not to lurch into the other pedestrians. He can't quite feel his feet anymore, thanks to the injection. Shouts of street vendors trying to sell their zongzi ring through the air, and every store has a wizened old lady sitting on a plastic stool, a bucket of soy-soaked glutinous rice placed between her flip-flopped feet. They pack the rice into cones of bamboo leaves, watch the dragon boat races on the tiny televisions perched in a corner.
He remembers Yichun telling him that zongzi were first made to keep fish from eating a dead man's body.
If he closes his eyes, it could be a humid night in July of last year. He rounds the corner to find men in dirty white undershirts drinking Tsingtao beer at the same table where he first met Dawu. His vision is already blurry from pain or medication, and if he squints just so, he can see Dawu there, protesting that he is a man at sixteen. He could walk past without stopping this time.
He sees an alternate path before him, one in which he never had to kill Xinsha or lie to Yichun.
It's a nice fantasy, and he dismisses it as he unlocks Dawu's shuttered doors, collapses on the familiar bed and tucks his gun under the pillow. His heart is split between Dawu and Toulon, has been since last July. It will only ache for another few minutes, maybe an entire hour, depending on how quickly Dawu finds his way here.
He double-checks the safety of his gun; it's still off.
He thinks about Qi Xi and the Dragon Boat Festival, of separation and death, of stars and fate, of drowned poets and loyalty.
They should have sealed their future with two gunshots, but there's only one bullet.
When he drags Dawu into the street, when he hears gunshots ringing out over the cries of the zongzi vendors, he smiles.
Instead of bullets, he feels the warm sun on his face and Dawu's hand weakly closing over his wrist. He grips Dawu's hand in his own and stumbles forward.
From now on, every moment is stolen from fate.
Hong Kong - December 25, 2006
They only celebrate two holidays of the year, and Christmas isn't one of them.
Xiaoxue is finishing up making New Year's restaurant reservations for someone when Dawu comes in.
"Yichun?" he asks, and Xiaoxue nods. They never discuss how much of their money goes to Shanghai; the city has taught them silence all too well.
It's raining when they leave the apartment, but neither of them bothers with an umbrella. The damp cold is different from the monsoon days of July, when they first met, and Xiaoxue's fingers are cold in Dawu's hand.
They pass by hordes of tourists taking the covered escalator, tiny mom-and-pop stores covered with tacky plastic Christmas decorations, red Starbucks cups overflowing from the garbage cans. Halfway through the downhill trek from Mid-Levels to Central, the rain stops and a sliver of sunlight cuts through the overlay of clouds.
Xiaoxue squeezes his hand, and they both squint as they look up at that small ray.
They know the only forever is now.
Disclaimer: Alas, Mizushiro Setona own these pretty boys.
Summary: Shanghai and Hong Kong during four holidays.
Notes: Written for
thuviaptarth for Yuletide 2006. I saw it come up on the pinch-hit list and immediately thought, "EEEE!!!! 1999nen! MUST WRITE!" And then I saw Nana and went "EEEEE!" again. And then I saw Her Majesty's Dog. And I thought, "Oh wait. I think I know whose request this is...." Since this is an incredibly obscure fandom and a) I want people to read my story and b) I adore this series and want to pimp it out to everyone, here are some useful links for information on the manga:
- my write up
- info on getting the scanlations off IRC
I used the solar calendar dates for both Qi Xi and the Dragon Boat Festival, since the mangaka used the solar calendar for Qi Xi in the manga. Also, I think I managed to figure out when the Dragon Boat Festival would have been in 2000, but wasn't entirely sure. I'm probably the only person bothered by this...
I'd like to thank
yhlee and edonohana for the incredibly last-minute beta, particularly since neither of them was very familiar with the source. Shanghai - January 1, 2007
"Three... two... one... Happy new year!"
The rooftop restaurant is filled with chanting, drunk, kissing people. They start to spill out onto the balcony; the alcohol in their blood or the judiciously-placed heat lamps ward off the chill.
Yichun and Lu retreated to the balcony a while ago, and Yichun resents the invasion of their space. He ignores most of the partygoers and elbows the ones who stumble into him. While everyone else cheers, Lu throws his arms around Yichun's waist and hugs him tightly. Yichun presses a brief kiss to the top of Lu's shaggy head. The kid needs a haircut again, he thinks.
Yichun's not one for public displays; they'll celebrate back at home in their own way. Dressed up, Lu is beautiful, the subdued charcoals and silvers so different from the dingy flannels and torn jeans of their Toulon days. He smoothes his hand over Lu's tie and shirt, rough skin snagging on fine silk. He loves the feel of the delicate herringbone pattern woven into the dress shirt, the sheen of high-thread-count cotton, the soft blend of wool and cashmere in the suit jacket. But he would rather be home, lying on polyester bedsheets and tracing Lu's scars.
Despite his old betrayal of the Toulon gang, someone has been strangely kind to them over the past seven years. Yichun had feared increased violence following the takeover of the Xianglongji gang by their rival Toulon, but the streets of Shanghai have been safer ever since that year. And Yichun and Lu have been doing well. Yichun suspects that Xima hasn't forgotten his cousin or his one-time lover, that Xima is the one who booked and paid for the fancy meal at M on the Bund.
He wonders if Dawu and Xiaoxue are celebrating the new year together somewhere. The rational side of him believes that Dawu and Xiaoxue died seven years ago in a back alley of the city; he has always thought Xiaoxue would hurry toward death, no matter how much Yichun tried to protect him and keep him safe. But the child in him, the one who will never stop being Xiaoxue's older brother...
He stops thinking when Lu smiles at him.
They watch the fireworks together. When Yichun looks down at the flame reds and neon greens pooling together in the reflection on the river, he finds that his memory of Xiaoxue's face is blurring.
The river laps peacefully between banks crowded with tourists and merchants selling cheap souveniers, and Yichun shuts his eyes to the past and kisses his future.
Shanghai - July 7, 1996
It's been a year since Xianglong found Dawu. He and Xinsha are still adjusting to the new person in their lives. Xinsha alternates between ignoring Dawu and attempting to relentlessly feed him, and Xianglong is trying to decide if he should bring the son of a druglord into gang life or not.
He won't think too much of the Xianglongji tonight though, not while he's stargazing with Xinsha. She's been asking for time for just the two of them ever since Dawu arrived. Xianglong can't afford diamond rings or jade pendants, not without Chen Guangming's help, and he wants any gift to Xinsha to be from him alone. But right now, his time is his own. He's only offering a plastic bag of takeout swinging from his arm, but his heart is full when he knocks on Xinsha's door.
It's nearly impossible to see anything but the brightest of constellations in the bustling centers of Shanghai, but it only takes a five-minute drive to the outskirts for the night sky to swallow them. Soon, construction will tear up the landscape, and glittering towers for the city's newest inhabitants will rise, but for now, Xianglong navigates via thin strips of light seeping through curtained windows and the stars above.
He and Xinsha sit on the steps of a closed store and solemnly break apart their disposable chopsticks. He watches her carefully pry open the container of sesame sauce and evenly pour it over the cold noodles, helps her mix in the thin slices of chicken and cucumber. Their chopsticks bump against each other; it's awkward and strangely intimate eating out of the same container.
As she's slurping down the noodles, he points out Vega and Altair.
"How do you know?" she asks.
"I asked Dawu to show me last night," he replies.
She doesn't say anything, only kisses him on the cheek. She smells of sesame oil and cucumber.
He catches her mouth with his own, tastes the sauce on her lips. Then he looks at her and asks her to be his vice-boss.
"You're my woman," he says after she agrees.
It isn't as romantic as a bridge of birds or a star-crossed love, but he sees forever in her eyes. It's enough to make him forget that as a gangster, forever isn't something he can offer.
Shanghai - May 5, 2000
Xiaoxue stumbles through the crowded streets, trying not to lurch into the other pedestrians. He can't quite feel his feet anymore, thanks to the injection. Shouts of street vendors trying to sell their zongzi ring through the air, and every store has a wizened old lady sitting on a plastic stool, a bucket of soy-soaked glutinous rice placed between her flip-flopped feet. They pack the rice into cones of bamboo leaves, watch the dragon boat races on the tiny televisions perched in a corner.
He remembers Yichun telling him that zongzi were first made to keep fish from eating a dead man's body.
If he closes his eyes, it could be a humid night in July of last year. He rounds the corner to find men in dirty white undershirts drinking Tsingtao beer at the same table where he first met Dawu. His vision is already blurry from pain or medication, and if he squints just so, he can see Dawu there, protesting that he is a man at sixteen. He could walk past without stopping this time.
He sees an alternate path before him, one in which he never had to kill Xinsha or lie to Yichun.
It's a nice fantasy, and he dismisses it as he unlocks Dawu's shuttered doors, collapses on the familiar bed and tucks his gun under the pillow. His heart is split between Dawu and Toulon, has been since last July. It will only ache for another few minutes, maybe an entire hour, depending on how quickly Dawu finds his way here.
He double-checks the safety of his gun; it's still off.
He thinks about Qi Xi and the Dragon Boat Festival, of separation and death, of stars and fate, of drowned poets and loyalty.
They should have sealed their future with two gunshots, but there's only one bullet.
When he drags Dawu into the street, when he hears gunshots ringing out over the cries of the zongzi vendors, he smiles.
Instead of bullets, he feels the warm sun on his face and Dawu's hand weakly closing over his wrist. He grips Dawu's hand in his own and stumbles forward.
From now on, every moment is stolen from fate.
Hong Kong - December 25, 2006
They only celebrate two holidays of the year, and Christmas isn't one of them.
Xiaoxue is finishing up making New Year's restaurant reservations for someone when Dawu comes in.
"Yichun?" he asks, and Xiaoxue nods. They never discuss how much of their money goes to Shanghai; the city has taught them silence all too well.
It's raining when they leave the apartment, but neither of them bothers with an umbrella. The damp cold is different from the monsoon days of July, when they first met, and Xiaoxue's fingers are cold in Dawu's hand.
They pass by hordes of tourists taking the covered escalator, tiny mom-and-pop stores covered with tacky plastic Christmas decorations, red Starbucks cups overflowing from the garbage cans. Halfway through the downhill trek from Mid-Levels to Central, the rain stops and a sliver of sunlight cuts through the overlay of clouds.
Xiaoxue squeezes his hand, and they both squint as they look up at that small ray.
They know the only forever is now.