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Xia Fei tugs at the collar of his shirt, buttoned neatly and too-high under his suit jacket. He hates these industry events. They’re a showcase of everything awful about the modelling world: fake smiles and veiled barbs and endless one-upmanship, the cattiness of fellow models and the creepiness of marketing executives too well-connected for him to offend.
Such as the one approaching him now, with a fervent “Felix! How lovely to finally meet you!” — and a proffered glass, its contents dark and dangerous.
Xia Fei would really, really like to refuse. But he thinks of his student loan and the payment for a cover shoot and Vein’s casual suggestion to make some useful contacts tonight — and takes the glass, swallowing his misgivings along with a generous gulp of the drink. It tastes as bitter as he feels.
The executive smiles; says something about next month’s Bridon Fashion cover, how you’d be perfect for it, Felix, you’re just what we’re looking for. Xia Fei keeps his smile plastered on, makes the appropriate polite noises, but it’s becoming hard to concentrate. The drink’s gone straight to his head. He’s unsteady, too-warm, shirt collar suddenly tight against his throat. Strange. He isn’t usually this bad at holding his alcohol.
“Excuse me,” he says, letting genuine discomfort break through his façade. “I’m not feeling too well. I think I should–”
A hand on his arm. Xia Fei startles — yet despite his instinctive alarm, some part of him welcomes the contact. An echo: Firm yet elegant fingers, an intense stare. Predatory. Something twists in the pit of Xia Fei’s stomach, not quite nausea. Nausea would be easier.
“Do you need to rest?” the executive asks, low and smooth, affected concern gilding a darker invitation. “My company has a suite booked in this hotel—”
“As does mine,” a familiar voice says.
Relief floods Xia Fei’s veins — alongside another sensation, hot and buzzing. He tries to ignore it, turning towards his saviour. “Boss!”
Vein smiles, but it’s colder than any expression he’s shown Xia Fei before. The executive’s hand lifts.
Vein slings an arm around Xia Fei, fingers closing around his shoulder. “Do excuse us,” he says, with the barest veneer of civility. “I’ll take care of this.”
Vein’s grip is firm and impersonal as he steers Xia Fei out of the ballroom and into the nearest elevator. Xia Fei feels like a criminal being marched to an inevitable doom. Apt enough, he supposes. The drink probably contained more than just alcohol; there’s a scolding in his near future.
Yet even as he cowers inwardly, pre-emptive, the very thought is distracting. The idea of Vein berating him, voice low, eyes dark with anger. The reality of Vein next to him, now, a firm and reassuring presence.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you,” Vein says — cold, unamused — “not to accept drinks from strangers.”
“Sorry,” Xia Fei mumbles. He means it. He’s also finding it hard to express the appropriate amount of contrition. His senses are overloaded with Vein’s presence: the spice-and-citrus scent of his cologne, the subaudible rhythm of his breathing. His hand on Xia Fei’s shoulder, touch burning through every layer of cloth.
After an eternity, the elevator lets them out. Vein manoeuvres Xia Fei towards and into a nearby room, barely pausing to tap the keycard.
Behind the safety of the closed door, Xia Fei collapses against Vein, trembling. The weakness isn’t feigned – but there’s opportunism in it, too. He knows Vein won’t push him away. He curls a hand into the front of Vein’s jacket, rests his head heavily against a shoulder. Just a little closer and he could push his face into that blood-red fall of hair, the side of his neck. He could—
“Boss,” he pants, pressing closer. “I— I need—” He swallows, desperate and ashamed and so, so tired of being both those things. “Can you... help me?”
A steadying hand in his hair. Xia Fei almost whines, leaning greedily into the touch. Ordinarily he’d be mortified by his own behaviour — but not right now, with this unbearable heat within him.
“What do you think I’m doing?” Vein replies, the coldness in his tone finally softening in amusement. Xia Fei’s heart swells. So does another, less mentionable part of him.
He can’t bear it. It takes every last scrap of self-control to keep his hips still, to maintain that distance even as he aches to close it. He wants to lean in, feel the firm muscle of Vein’s body against his. He wants to bury his face in the curve of Vein’s throat. He wants—
“Enough,” Vein says, a foreign edge to his voice. “Can you take your own clothes off?”
For a moment, Xia Fei thinks he must have misheard. He’s had this dream before, or at least a version of it: Vein’s hands on his shirt, brisk and businesslike against the buttons, their touch softening as they slip beneath fabric. He’d never expected it to happen. He isn’t actually sure it’s happening now.
“Well?” Vein asks. Terse, but not unkind.
Xia Fei swallows. “Y-yes.”
“Good. Go on, then.”
Xia Fei fumbles with his suit jacket until he’s managed to extricate himself. His fingers can’t seem to stop shaking long enough to unbutton his shirt. Vein shrugs his own jacket off, the motion fluid with practice, and... heads for the bathroom. Right. Okay. Xia Fei tries not to think about anything, focusing on getting his hands to cooperate.
He’s finally struggled out of his trousers when Vein reappears, sleeves rolled up to his elbows but otherwise unchanged. Xia Fei blinks as Vein nears, suddenly and acutely aware of how little he’s wearing in comparison.
“Come on.” Vein’s hand closes around Xia Fei’s arm, bare skin on skin, and Xia Fei makes an embarrassingly unwarranted noise. Vein ignores it. He marches Xia Fei into the bathroom, nods impatiently at the bathtub.
Xia Fei clambers in, uncertain; it takes only the slightest pressure on his shoulder for him to fold, sinking to his knees. He peers up at Vein, wondering, not daring to hope—
—and Vein turns the shower on, unceremoniously dousing him. Xia Fei yelps at the sudden chill; the water’s stream is redirected, pouring lukewarm against his shoulder instead.
“The water isn’t that cold,” Vein says carelessly. “Take some time to cool off. I’ll be back to make sure you haven’t drowned.”
And then he’s gone. Xia Fei sinks back against the bathtub, its polished surface as cold and unyielding as rejection. His cheeks burn in humiliation — and still, despite everything, that damned heat. The water may have briefly cleared his mind, but it isn’t doing much for the rest of his body.
Now that Vein isn’t here — now that it no longer matters — Xia Fei gives in. He shrugs off his underwear, belatedly, and wraps a clumsy hand around his neglected erection.
It takes barely any time for him to come; the heat inside him, too, barely subsides. Within minutes, he’s achingly hard again. His skin still seems to tingle from where Vein had touched it. The scent of cologne lingers in the air. Xia Fei grits his teeth, works his way back up to another climax, gasping as it arrives.
It isn’t enough. He needs someone else’s touch. He’s still tender, too-sensitive, but he takes himself in hand again and imagines: those strong and elegant fingers, a deep red gaze. Warm breath against his skin; laughter, dark and rich as wine. A silken fall of hair. Xia Fei whimpers as he comes yet another time, sore and tired and maddeningly unfulfilled. The bathwater is up to his ankles. His cock lies limp, spent. He hesitates; reaches lower, rubbing against the soft flesh behind his balls. Imagines someone else’s fingers pressing elsewhere, deeper—
The bathroom door slides open. Xia Fei’s unsteady gaze focuses on Vein just long enough for him to come, choking down the name that nearly escaped his throat.
Xia Fei slumps back against the bathtub, eyes shut. He wants to die. Or at least faint. That might spare him any further humiliation.
No such luck. Instead: footsteps, nearing, then the cold press of condensation-coated plastic against his cheek. Xia Fei opens his eyes, reluctantly.
“Drink,” Vein says, holding out an uncapped bottle. Xia Fei obeys. The taste comes as a shock — too-cold and too-sweet — but he gulps it down. Sports drink, his mind supplies helpfully. It also notes, much less helpfully, Vein’s extreme proximity. If Xia Fei just leaned over the side of the bathtub, he could rest his head against Vein’s thigh.
He finishes the drink. Vein takes the empty bottle from him. Their hands brush, the barest of contact; Xia Fei’s cock twitches in a valiant attempt to reawaken.
“Why don’t you take a few more minutes to wash up,” Vein says. “And then you should really get some rest.”
Xia Fei wakes with an insistent headache, amid luxuriously silken sheets that nevertheless feel rough against his body. Specifically: against a particularly tender part of his body. He’s exhausted and he’s sore and, worst of all, he remembers.
Not all of it — the journey from bathroom to bed is particularly hazy, fragmented memories of strong arms around him and carpet underfoot, the hairdryer’s whir and fingers combing through his hair — but enough to realise what an absolute mess he’d made last night. What an absolute mess he’d been.
Xia Fei curls into himself, squeezing his eyes shut tighter as if to block out reality, and mutters to the universe in general: “I’m so fucked.”
“On the contrary,” a familiar voice says from beside the bed. “Fortunately enough.”
Xia Fei isn’t sure if he actually screams. He certainly bolts upright, shaking, unable to process the fact that the witness to his disgraceful conduct is still in the room.
Vein looks up from his phone. “Feeling better?”
Xia Fei drops his gaze to the bed, hands curling in the sheets. He feels awful. His throat is dry and his head hurts and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to touch himself for weeks. He needs to change his name and flee the country. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to look Vein in the eye again.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles. Adds, belated and entirely inadequate: “Sorry.”
Vein gets to his feet, glancing at his phone a final time before slipping it into his pocket. “You still have about two hours for breakfast — just give the room number at the dining hall. Check-out is at eleven.”
Xia Fei looks up in instinctive but admittedly unwarranted surprise. It’s not as if he’d imagined that they’d... get breakfast together, or anything like that. Not a ride home, either. Nothing that might have the remotest hint of a morning after. And yet, as Vein stares coolly back at him, Xia Fei can’t help but feel...
He isn’t sure. Hurt? Disappointed? He wants Vein to scold him, threaten him, flick his forehead – anything other than this terrible distance.
As if this couldn’t get more humiliating, Xia Fei senses the hot prickle of tears in his eyes. He blinks them away, frustrated. Says, in an even smaller voice: “Thanks, boss. I’m sorry for causing trouble.”
There’s the sound of a brief, exasperated sigh. Then, like benediction: a hand in his hair, ruffling it gently.
“Be more careful,” Vein says. “But you’re not the one who has to be sorry about last night.”
Xia Fei looks up timidly, just in time to catch the smile that flashes knife-sharp across Vein’s face as he adds: “I’ve already made sure that the relevant person regrets it.”