Chapter Text
In Pei Ming’s ideal world – and he spoke with the authority of being the artist on exhibit – it’s nighttime that set the perfect ambience for his works. There would be zero artificial lighting, and he would only allow the faintest orange glow from the streetlamps outside. Unfortunately and unsurprisingly, his curatorial concept had been vetoed on grounds of it being “too dark for the critics to criticize”. His OCD manager had even gone so far as to ensure this with automatic settings that she'd installed for the lights and A/C in the gallery — everything off and everybody out by 10 PM on the dot.
Of course, it’s an entirely different story if you were on the secret guest lists. He fumbles blindly on the A/C controls until he hears the familiar beep. In the gallery that he had presumed to be all empty save for him, he had caught the footsteps of a lone patron a short distance away from him. He doesn’t know who it is and hadn’t been expecting anyone – and Ling Wen, having assumed that he would not have cared to remember, had also not bothered to inform him.
She’s not wrong. But – here’s what she didn’t know. He’d decided no less than a minute ago that he feels attracted to the sound of this mystery person’s footsteps.
And that’s not code or euphemism for anything. He simply found the soft press of leather soles, the even distribution of their weight, and most importantly, the equal amount of time they afforded to each and every single photograph on display to be especially appealing.
It’s hard to put artistic inspiration into words, and harder even to make it sound rational, but it is what it is, and Pei Ming is, as the papers say, “a contemporary genius”.
Who is it? He texts, and immediately his phone screen flares up like a searchlight. Annoyed, he locks the screen and shoves it into the back of his pants, letting the dusky ambiance return to its perfect and undisturbed state.
On second thought, he removes his phone entirely, places it face down on the table, and fills his hands with his camera instead.
He steps out of the office silently. With such limited lighting, they filtered through the rows of photos hanging from the ceiling, creating a dark, magenta-tinted forest of film – the perfect playground for illicit mischief. Pei Ming’s curiosity is piqued, feeling a pseudo-thrill of the as he aimed his lens from waist level and photographs the back of the stranger.
Pei Ming only looks after. He finds that his hands have captured a back portrait framed perfectly between two sheets of film, and that he’s caught all of a pearlescent white blouse, decorated with a thin black string around the collar, draped over in long, voluminous brown hair tied in a half ponytail. He’s nowhere closer to knowing who they are – Ling Wen still had not replied him – he’d left her back there in the office – but what more of them did Pei Ming even need to know, apart from the fact that they had a beautiful back and an enchanting gait?
The footsteps stall. They hover, seemingly deliberating between walking away to view the next piece, or turning around to initiate a conversation. The stranger picks the latter, and turns towards Pei Ming’s direction.
“So the rumor isn’t true, then.”
The disappointment at hearing that soft-spoken, androgynous, but unmistakably male voice yanks Pei Ming from his fantasies squarely back down to earth. His finger pushes once on the delete button, barely able to keep a frown from pulling down his lip corners. “That depends. What rumor?”
“The one about you only photographing women.”
Pei Ming snorts and smirks. “I’ve never met a beautiful man,” he explains. It’s not the full answer, but it is the short answer, for he’s already lost all interest in further pursuit of this conversation.
He hears a chuckle. “Really? Is beauty only reserved for women?” The steps come closer, drawing to a stop in front of him. Pei Ming deletes the photo.
It’s only then that he finally looks – and curses himself for being so impulsively short-sighted.
The stranger’s head is cocked slightly to the right, conveying his puzzlement. On his face is a pair of huge almond eyes, set around a straight, small nose, sitting atop full, petite lips with a natural upwards curve. Delicate and sharp, perfectly symmetrical; beautiful in the sum of its parts, and beautiful in each of its parts.
It’s a man, but a lovely, beautiful man. He carried that quintessential quality that Pei Ming searched for in his muses, of beauty that was enduring and universal, no matter when or how you looked at it; beauty filled with the love that he felt towards it, there and then, in the moment that he took his camera to it. Hence the signature style of his art – of anonymous, unidentifiable bodies that remained alluring even when he photographed only a fraction of them.
Beauty made to last in memories.
Beautiful like all that of familiarity.
At Pei Ming’s complete lack of a response, the stranger elaborates his point.
“In your art you are like a forensic detective, dissecting the female form into pieces, turning a warm body cold, abstract and impersonal. Ironically, you’re fascinated with photographing snapshots of sexual intimacy, capturing scenes that anyone will find relatable – even going the extra step of remove details that could be used to identify either yourself or the muse. All of this comes back to that one ultimate question – for all that your art seeks to convey, what difference does it make to your audience if this thigh or this cheek were to belong to a man instead of a woman? They’re all bodies, after all. Surely unmarred skin and supple flesh is as much a feature of male bodies as it is a females?”
Pei Ming is still slack-jawed. There’s something else about this man. It’s partially to do with the way he spoke – like a scientist, articulate and analytical; with a bold confidence in lobbing his criticisms directly into Pei Ming’s face; and most tellingly, that he is privy to knowledge only afforded to a select few – that this exhibit is Ming Guang’s, and that Ming Guang is Pei Ming.
There were two things he could presently think to reply him with.
One – an offer to photograph him. On the house.
Two – he could quote his favorite paragraph from that scathing review in the papers that this man had been paraphrasing this entire time:
“Ming Guang makes his annual return with another promiscuous exhibit of the original human sin – sex. It was audacious in the first year, offensive in the second, and now that we’re in the third – utterly boring. The pornographic auteur reminds us yet again exactly how and why he loves his women so – and yet he stops there, afraid to experiment beyond the confines of the box he’s wedged himself in, either unwilling or uninterested to show us something truly new or exciting. Is there no more to the rites of coupling than the curves of a women’s under-breast, or of the shadows between her cheeks? With such a clear, palpable fear towards the sex of his own gender, is he truly worthy of the self-proclaimed title as our Adonis? How much more of the same old thing are we interested in consuming?”
For a second, the stranger is stunned – and then his face breaks into a wide, gorgeous smile that Pei Ming is quick to return.
Memories of the halcyon days of art college resurface in his mind. This smile is as familiar as it is beautiful; the sort that Pei Ming used to see only at sunsets, after an entire day’s worth of work in the studio. The stranger is an old friend, who throws his head back in a hearty laugh. “I’m both impressed and terrified!”
His name is Xie Lian. They had been peers in the same cohort. He was – is – talented, a cut above all others, and was generous enough to assist Pei Ming as both a source of artistic inspiration and creative criticism during his initial foray into photography.
And now, the realization is kicking in that he’s also—
“You’re Xian Le!”
Ming Guang’s single most vicious and most passionate critic, whose printed words are read by billions across the country, and have a direct influence on Pei Ming’s professional career.
“So, how have you been?”
There exists any number of ways that Pei Ming could answer that question. Successful, if he wanted a swift end to the conversation. Busy, if he were to be honest. Available, if it was a pretty girl asking. But he didn’t care for any of that now.
“Thinking about you,” he answers. Xian Le’s reviews are in of themselves a highlight of Ming Guang’s shows. Ling Wen, who is of the mind that “no publicity is bad publicity”, makes sure they’re the first thing he wakes up to the day that they’re published. She insisted that he took in the “free and constructive criticism” as they came, but of the thousands of words in those painstaking dissertations, the lasting impression Pei Ming had ever gotten was how there existed a million different ways to call someone an idiot without having to use the word “idiot”.
“How flattering.” Xie Lian says, with something of a shy grin. “And what about me?”
Honestly, he’s always dreamt of sending Xian Le a framed portrait of his dick to let him know precisely what he thought of his critiques. But now...
“Isn’t heterosexuality boring?” Pei Ming quips instead. That was the review title. It is witty, concise, and disgusting in how it completely dominated all social and media mentions of Ming Guang for weeks on end.
Xie Lian waits. “Well?”
“I’m still thinking about it.” Pei Ming answers.
His smile seemed to brighten. Now that they were out on the streets, there is ample brightness to bring to light the familiarity of that expression on his face, the way it fit into the naturally upturned corners of his lips and crinkled into the smile lines by his eyes. It is a smile that Pei Ming never tired of seeing.
“Is it that difficult a question?”
“Well I’m thinking about it seriously.”
“Let me rephrase it, then.” Xie Lian offers. “Will you fuck a man - yes, or no?”
Pei Ming lets out a bark of laughter. He’s always adored Xie Lian’s sharp tongue.
“I’ve never met one I could fuck.”
“What’s your criteria for being fuckable?”
“Wouldn’t you know all about it, with all the time you’ve spent scrutinizing my works?”
“That’s exactly my question. Your only criteria – in the realm of your photography, that is – is physical. That’s doesn’t equate to needing the partner to be a female.”
So that’s how he thinks it is. Pei Ming’s lips quirk upwards. “Is that so?”
Xie Lian’s expression turns half-serious, and he sends him a pointed look from the corner of his eye. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”
He doesn’t want to. Artists put out art to be judged. If they didn’t want to incite reactions, dialogue, or even controversy, they would have kept it private. “I want to hear what you have to say.” The grin on his face becomes a fraction wider. To think there would ever come a day where he would be saying this to Xian Le, of all people – “What do you see in men that reminds you of what I see in women?”
Xie Lian chuckles, and does his little head tilt again. “I see the same things in men and in women.”
Pei Ming spreads his arms out, unveiling his misunderstood integrity. “As do I!”
He doesn’t miss that tiny eye-roll that went with his shaking head. “Then that’s what I wish you would show in your art. What’s stopping you?”
Pei Ming looks to him incredulously. “My standards.”
The reply stops Xie Lian dead in his tracks for an entire second before he bursts into a peal of laughter.
“And who could ever hold a candle to that!”
It’s clear he thinks Pei Ming is joking. He waits for him to catch his breath. “I’ve photographed you before, haven’t I?”
“Mm-hmm.” He sounds nonplussed and unimpressed. “And where are those photos now?”
Stuffed in some dusty album in his parent’s house. “Not worth missing. I'll much rather shoot you again."
Be my muse again, is what he means, without saying. He’s honed and refined his style so much since his days as a clueless student. Nowadays, women pay him to photograph them. A night with Ming Guang, forever enshrined as multimillion-dollar pieces of art. As did the men. It goes without saying that he’s had his fair share of admirers all across the spectrum.
What stopped him? His answer had been genuine, even if Xie Lian hadn’t believed it – his ridiculous, sky-high standards for the men. He created his art organically, motivated by the self-serving desire to create for his own pleasure. At most, he could only bring his art to respond to two very special figures in his life. One of which is his original muse, whose beauty, grace and form he endlessly chased; the other is his biting, pain-in-the-ass critic from the papers.
Both of which he now knows to be Xie Lian.
“Say yes.” He beseeches, with controlled charisma, impressing quiet persuasion on his dear, old friend. “I know you have much more notes for me,” he adds. “That I have room to grow... To get to the place that you think I should be.”
Ming Guang certainly hadn’t gotten through years of public mockery and slander from Xian Le without entertaining fantasies of fucking him up some way and some how. As the implicit meaning behind his words sink in, a shade of burgundy starts to creep up Xie Lian’s neck.
“I’ll like for you to personally show me how I could become – in your eyes – a better artist. One to your standards. After all, there’s hardly a bigger Ming Guang critic than you, is there?”
There is a line. There’s always one. This one he could see, disappearing in real-time as Xie Lian’s hesitant eyes meet with his.
“… Alright then.”
“How is it that all these years, you’ve never once been with a man until now?”
That’s Xian Le alright. There’s no one else with the unique ability of honoring and offending Pei Ming in a single sentence. Honored because he had agreed, and also because this was the side of Xie Lian that most never got to see – the one that is opinionated, bold, demanding, and proud. Offended because it sounded also like an undisguised dig at his sexual prowess, and even if Pei Ming could somewhat tolerate slander against his artistic sensibilities, he would not stand for such comments against his sex-god reputation. “I’ve had anal sex,” he grouses, just to be clear.
They were facing each other on opposite sides of Pei Ming’s bed, each removing their own clothes with an almost awkward formality. Xie Lian sheds everything save for his unbuttoned blouse, and throws a kind, mischievous smile across his shoulder. “Let me walk you through it.”
Pei Ming snorts, and doesn't say a word until they're both on the bed and he's crawled between Xie Lian's fair, skinny legs.
“First, lube is a must.” Xie Lian squeezes a wad of gel onto his fingers. “Generous amounts of it. Start with one finger and massage slowly.” His props own his hips on a pillow, offering up an unobstructed view of his little pink opening. Pei Ming probes it delicately, triggering a flowering blush on Xie Lian's cheeks.
“Go slow. Work at it with different lengths of your fingers…” Pei Ming slips the tip of his finger in, exceedingly gentle. “What about saliva and tongue?” He suggests, watching Xie Lian pucker and lap up the gel. He is of the humble opinion that it is the delicate things that need the roughest of fucks.
Xie Lian laughs. Different from when they were on the streets, this laugh is breathier, and just that much shyer. In direct contrast to that sound is the sheer confidence packed into the next words to from his mouth: “You have to work for it if you want to fuck me raw.”
His words immediately draw a sly grin from Pei Ming. Abruptly he surges forward, hands going to his thighs, snaking his head forward with the intent to taste that precious inner flesh. But Xie Lian had anticipated it, and slaps a hand across his mouth in the nick of time.
Pei Ming sends him a look. His frustration is met with a flash of satisfaction in Xie Lian’s unusually dark eyes.
“I am working for it,” he argues. His tongue is keeping busy, licking the dips between each of Xie Lian’s long fingers. They were twice the width of a woman’s, he finds, and also rough with callouses. “I’ve never had to wait this long just to get to penetration.”
Apart from the faintest of grins, Xie Lian doesn’t respond. His pupils track the movement of Pei Ming’s tongue, silently encouraging him to lick their entire length as he turns his hand this way and that.
When he deems it adequate, Xie Lian doesn't say to stop – he simply switches his hands, plunging the freshly saliva-coated ones in his own ass while his other fingers – and Pei Ming’s mouth – stayed anchored on the outside. “Harder to penetrate, easier to fuck,” Xie Lian mutters, returning his gaze back to his own body.
“Easier?” Pei Ming growls. His hole looked completely filled with just two fingers, with not a single sliver of flesh to spare. And then — he must have hit a pleasure spot, because for a second Xie Lian’s eyes squeeze shut as he gasps, the muscles of his lower body contracting in tendon. “I’m so tight… Your cock won’t have any spare room to breathe.”
Pei Ming’s grin returns. This time, he makes a point to hold up his hand, and show the process of drizzling lube onto them.
Xie Lian scissors himself, making space for Pei Ming to wedge one of his fingers in.
It’s a tight squeeze alright. Forget getting a cock in – Pei Ming felt like the blood circulation was about to cut off at his knuckle. Xie Lian groans, his hip jutting forward.
“Crook… Crook your finger,” he urges, with new impatience. Pei Ming does as instructed.
“Hi-Higher. Push in, at that angle. Closer—Yes! Yes, there. Around there.”
He’s stiff as a rock, with fresh sweat gathering by his temples and ears. Pei Ming’s patience is almost completely gone, but he wanted to get at least fourth finger in before they go any further.
“And you’ll come just from this?”
Xie Lian shoots him a look from beneath hooded eyes. “That depends.”
“On?”
“Your aim.”
“Duly noted,” Pei Ming drawls, his ego smarting. He rotates his wrist slightly to get into a more comfortable position, and slowly edges the tip of another finger in. “Can I help you relax?” he offers.
“Please.”
It's peculiar how demanding he gets when he thinks Pei Ming is unwilling, and how sweetly he begs when Pei Ming is all ready to give. He might not have Xie Lian’s talent with words, but he thinks he knows of one that pretty adequately sums him up. Maddening.
Xie Lian’s mouth parts like a budding rose when Pei Ming descends on him, handing over his tongue and letting him tug his lower lip without protest. Pei Ming’s fingers find a furious pace, slipping, sliding, jabbing and scissoring. When he pulls off, he finds the color of arousal had spread all over Xie Lian’s body, affecting his cheeks and chest like a crimson fever.
“That's enough, now.” Xie Lian pants. “Come.”
They withdraw their joint fingers. His hole is darker now that they’d stretched it, though it hardly looked any closer to being able to fit Pei Ming’s erection. But he knows better than most that appearances are deceptive, especially when it comes to Xie Lian.
The sticky squelch as he finally penetrates him fires a bolt of electricity up his spine. Xie Lian’s legs jump like rabbits, kneeing both his ribs – which Pei Ming firmly pushes back down. He had not been exaggerating earlier – not even a single strand of hair would have been able to fit between their bodies in this moment. “Fuck…” he hisses. “Shit. Fuck. You’re incredible.”
Pei Ming knows that he’s liable to spouting romantic nonsense during sex. Which is why it needs to be stated for the record that the nonsense he’s spouting now is in fact genuine. Where sex is raw and vulnerable, Xie Lian has eyelashes that flutter like butterfly wings, and eyelids that droop like petals heavy with dew.
It should be noted also that Xie Lian is no more eloquent himself. His eyes have glazed over, and saliva is trailing from his mouth. But it’s clear that he’s still trying to maintain some semblance of control, methodically unwinding the tension in his body – from the tendons in his neck to the nails in Pei Ming’s back.
Next time, Pei Ming makes a silent promise. Next time, he’s going to replicate every last detail that culminated in this exact set-up and capture all of this on his camera.
Xie Lian rushes the next words out in a single breath. “Now fuck me.”
Pei Ming obliges, with greedy pleasure.
He’s always liked the sound of Xie Lian’s clear, crystalline voice. His speaking voice is like chimes in the wind; his written word is like shards of broken, cutting glass; and his screams are brittle, fragile, and something that Pei Ming found an indescribable pleasure in shattering. It’s interspersed only by airy whimpers, choked off cries, and increasingly half-hearted attempts at his name – “Pei…”, “Pei…!”, “… Ming!”
He climaxes first, succumbing to that smothering, crushing pressure on his dick; the humidity of their joined bodies that filed away the edges of his instincts, sedating him with hedonistic pleasure. With the last shred of his awareness, he fixes Xie Lian’s hips in a death grip and pumps him full. Xie Lian takes everything with a high, scalding cry. His own orgasm takes him into a back-breaking arch and a wild, ferocious scream.
It is, dare Pei Ming say, the most satisfying orgasm he’s ever experienced in his life.
“So,” he prompts, after a minute of silent, peaceful breathing.
“… So?”
He smirks. “Critic that.”
Xie Lian blinks a few times, a tiny pout forming on his lower lip. “You… You tell me. How did you find your own performance?”
“Looks like I’ve given you ample new material for your next piece.” Pei Ming observes, with a smirk in his voice. “Again. Not surprising, considering you’ve made me your muse. I get it. You just can’t help but obsess over me. I’m used to being popular.”
He could tell this isn’t the sort of post-coital exchange that Xie Lian had been expecting. “I was under the impression that I’d been the one brought here as the muse,” he mutters softly.
Pei Ming plays with a strand of his hair between his fingers, delaying his answer so that he wouldn’t seem too much like a high-schooler with a ridiculous crush. “Maybe we could be each other’s muses.”
Xie Lian turns to face him, their eyes slowly coming to meet. Pei Ming doesn’t know what he sees, but in his eyes, Xie Lian’s body is glistening in sweat, his flawless skin pockmarked by the pink of still-forming bruises. He is tenacious and unfaltering, always taking Pei Ming exactly as he came.
He is grace, he is beauty, and he is something that Pei Ming has very sorely missed.
So it’s both heart-wrenching and humbling when he finally hears Xie Lian’s response. “How do you think I could ever say no to you?"