A light in the dark

“Sāng, you have one minute to explain why you are here, before I fire you for your own safety.”

Ruìsāng offered an awkward smile to his boss as he perched on the couch, his arms folded neatly in his lap. His return to work, mere days after getting stabbed, wasn’t motivated by a fear of unemployment— he was aware of the affection and respect his boss held for him. Over the years, his reliability was unchallenged, save for the time he took off when his mother died. Now, seeking semblance in routine, he found himself back at work, only to be met with his boss's worry veiled as an ultimatum.

“I promise I’m taking it easy,” he attempted to lie, yearning for just a fragment of normalcy amidst the recent events. The prospect of facing the empty quiet of his home weighed heavily on him. His life, contrary to his anticipations, had continued, leaving him adrift in the aftermath. However, his boss, short on patience for such risks, insisted on sending him home, offering paid leave as a consolation.


Interrupted by the buzz of his phone, Ruìsāng was jolted from his thoughts. The sudden reminder of what he’d promised Míngzé sparked a sliver of relief— his boss's concern notwithstanding, he convinced himself that a brief venture out would incur no harm. Thus, he navigated the crowd with renewed purpose, a smile breaking through  as he spotted Míngzé.

“Gēgē, finally here,” he greeted with a grin, the prospect of distraction a welcome reprieve. “Come on. Let me take you to the bar, eh?” he invited, extended with a gentle tug at Míngzé’s arm.

Míngzé's greeting, echoing the name Ruìsāng had entered into the other's phone during their initial encounter, drew a chuckle from him.”“I’m glad you finally see me for who I am,” Ruìsāng responded with a nod, his tone devoid of any jest. Deep down, he identified more with a demon than a God.

As he gently guided Míngzé by the arm, signalling their arrival with a tap on the seat, Míngzé commented that he’d been right to tell his boyfriend that he was alright. It elicited an amused scoff from Ruìsāng. Circling the bar, he seamlessly slipping into the role of bartender despite the disapproving look from his boss. Leaning over the bar with ease, he grinned as he started talking.

“Alright?” he echoed. “But I wasn’t,” he admitted. “I got stabbed and nearly died.” The confession was delivered with the tone as if he’d announced what he got for today’s groceries.

When Míngzé revealed that he had finally updated Ruìsāng's contact name, Ruìsāng couldn’t hide his mock disappointment. “I’m surprised you kept it this long,” he admitted. “You’ve been Míng-gēgē in mine for quite some time,” he added with a chuckle. While there was a flirtatious notion in gēgē, it would be weird to call Míngzé by his name now. He was Gēgē, or Míng-gē.

Míngzé’s scepticism drew a scoff from Ruìsāng, though his retort was cut short by a twinge of discomfort. “Yeah, I—” His explanation was abruptly interrupted as a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder, halting him mid-sentence.

“Sāng, did I not send you home?” the authoritative tone of their boss loomed over him, heavy with disapproval.

Yikes.

“Hǎole hǎole. Just let me serve him one drink, and I’m off,” Ruìsāng negotiated as he gestured towards Míngzé. The boss, clearly unamused, shot a stern look their way before muttering a begrudging concession that Ruìsāng had an hour to make his exit.

“See! Quick, tell me what you’d like to drink before he decides to poke a hole in me as well,” Ruìsāng quipped, only half-joking.

Míngzé's inquiry prompted Ruìsāng to confirm with a heavy sigh. “Yes, that’s the boss-man,” he acknowledged. This casual moniker was emblematic of Ruìsāng's tendency to assign titles or nicknames to those in his circle. Originally, he had used the term Lǎobǎn, until the man expressed a preference for a name of his own language. Hence, 'boss-man' came into regular use.

As he prepared a Wicked Wench — a drink renowned for its potency, crowned with a strong shot — Ruìsāng maintained his focus despite Míngzé's interruption and his own pain.

“Why would I joke about getting stabbed?” Ruìsāng retorted. “Getting stabbed hurts, and it is not funny,” he added. Míngzé might not fully grasp the extent of the worry that Vince had undoubtedly felt to come knocking on his door.

Ruìsāng did feel a little bad. His intention had been to shed light on the situation for Míngzé, aiming to indirectly explain Vince’s appearance. Vince's visit to Míngzé, fraught with concern and seeking reassurance about Ruìsāng's well-being, only to be told Ruìsāng was ‘alright’, gave Ruìsāng a growing sense of guilt for the fear he had instilled in Vince that day.

“Yeah. I don’t think he would’ve sought you out if everything was fine,” Ruìsāng conceded, his voice tinged with a solemn clarity. “But truthfully, there was little either of you could have done. I chose to turn off my phone and do something reckless, yet here we stand, still breathing.” Unlike Vince’s dad.

“Here’s your drink. Watch out for the shot on top— oh, and it’s aflame,” he added with a playful grin, eager to divert the conversation to lighter topics. His curiosity piqued, Ruìsāng watched Míngzé, anticipating his reaction to the beverage.

As Míngzé seemingly had a crisis, reflecting on Vince's words and the weighty conclusions drawn from them, Ruìsāng felt somewhat guilty. “What did he say to you?” he wondered. He had many regrets and what-ifs on his mind, despite the past being the past. There was nothing he could do about it now. All he could do was do better.

Observing Míngzé's hesitation with the drink, a flicker of amusement crossed Ruìsāng's faced. “Lean in and blow it out. Surely you’ve blown out candles before. And hurry, before the alcohol burns out,” he instructed with a grin. The warmth of the flame and the faint glow it emitted should provide enough sensory cues for Míngzé to engage with the experience.

As Míngzé relayed Vince's words, Ruìsāng felt an icy sensation creep into his chest. The realisation that his efforts to pretend nothing was wrong might have been transparent to those around him was unsettling. The fact that Vince, despite sensing that something was amiss, chose to remain close, struck a chord within Ruìsāng. “I get it,” he whispered, knowing Míngzé couldn’t have known better.

At Míngzé's reaction to the strength of the shot, Ruìsāng allowed a momentary distraction, a brief chuckle escaping him. “It’s good though. Nice rum,” he commented, appreciating the quality of the drink despite its potency. It was the kind of rum that demanded respect, not to be taken lightly but certainly to be savoured.

The conversation took a more serious turn as Míngzā expressed scepticism about the threats to Vince's life, prompting a sharper edge to Ruìsāng's response. “He told you there were attempts on his life and you thought he was crazy?” The question was laced with a mix of incredulity and frustration. Ruìsāng then sighed, letting the tension roll off his shoulders.

“I asked you how far you’d go to protect someone you love. It’s exactly because someone was a threat to his life that I got in trouble,” he sighed, the weight of his actions and their repercussions pressing down on him as he leaned against the counter. “But it’s alright now.” The words were spoken more as a mantra than a statement of fact, an attempt to will into existence a stability that felt just out of reach. It wasn’t alright, not really, but in that moment, Ruìsāng clung to the hope that it could be.

The idea that someone could relentlessly target Vince was a foreign concept to Míngzé. Yet, for Ruìsāng, Vince's sincerity and honesty were beyond question. “Assumptions are dangerous things,” he gently reminded Míngzé, a note of caution in his voice.

Learning that Vince had been worried just a few hours into Ruìsāng's absence, rather than after a full night's rest as he had hoped, Ruìsāng felt a pang of guilt. The revelation that Vince had spent a sleepless night in concern… yeah, he had to make it up to him. “Yeah. He had his reasons,” he acknowledged with a resigned sigh.

Ruìsāng exhaled a weary sigh. “Something terribly stupid and risky,” he confessed, the weight of his choices pressing heavily on him. “But it worked out as well as it could have,” he added, a bitter acknowledgment of the consequences he now lived with. Despite the phantom blood on his hands, Ruìsāng couldn't envision an alternative path. His regret was not in the action itself but in his failure to trust Vince.

“Don’t worry about me, alright? It’s… fine. Just put a little more faith in him if he asks for help. If not for him, then because it’ll help me knowing he’d have someone there for him,” Ruìsāng implored Míngzé. Regardless of Míngzé's personal feelings toward Vince, to know that in his absence, Vince would not be left to face his battles alone, would be one less burden on his mind.

Ruìsāng's nod at Míngzé's vow to stand by Vince in future troubles wasn't born from concern for his own wellbeing, but rather from a desire to ensure Vince's safety. He saw in Míngzé a potential pillar for Vince to lean on.

However, the notion that Vince harboured fear towards Míngzé struck Ruìsāng as so absurd that it elicited a burst of laughter from him. “Of you?” he echoed, his incredulity painting his voice with amusement. He gave Míngzé a once-over, his gaze briefly appraising before dismissing the idea altogether with a shake of his head. “Āiyā, Míng-gē, I hate to break it to you, but if he ain’t scared of me, he ain’t gonna be scared of you,” he said. The comparison was clear in his mind; Míngzé posed no more a threat than a kitten stripped of its claws and teeth— especially when compared to Ruìsāng.

To an outsider listening in, the suggestion that Míngzé might seem more intimidating than Ruìsāng could easily ring true. At a casual glance, Ruìsāng didn't embody the image of menace. His height was unremarkable, and his blonde hair coupled with a boyish smile painted him more as someone cheeky rather than intimidating.

Yet, Ruìsāng was acutely aware of the more subtle, revealing aspects of his appearance and demeanour— the intensity of his glare, the muscles concealed by his attire, and the tell-tale bandages wrapping his hand. Along with his ability to project an air of undeniable threat when necessary, was vastly different from an initial impression. And this didn't even account for the darkness he carried.

As Míngzé explained how Vince had spoken to him, Ruìsāng dramatised his response, collapsing onto the counter with a flourish of despair. “I feel so bad,” he lamented. “And I can’t even make it up to him right now bec—” His self-pity was abruptly cut short by the words landing, snapping Ruìsāng back to a state of alertness. The sudden shift caused him to nearly lose his balance, a sharp reminder of his recent injury.

“What do you mean you can’t keep your apartment?” he questioned, the concern in his voice stripping away any previous dramatics.