Beauty and Madness
A variation on a theme from The Magnificent Butcher
by Renee Tremblay
"Who will see the beauty in your life,/ who will be
there to hear you when you call?/ Who will see the
madness in your life,/ and who will be there to catch
you when you fall?" Fra Lippo Lippi.
From his vantage point on the bench, Fung was pretending
not to watch Chai bathing. It was a little before sunset:
the last rays of sunlight gave more light than heat. Fung
tucked his hands behind his head, and pretended to bask.
His eyes were half-closed. From under his long lashes, sidelong,
he could see Chai. It was a thing of routine, almost,
every night the same, Chai composed and oblivious, Fung
predatory, watchful, silent.
It was a matter of ritual: had he needed, Fung could have
recited to perfection every item in the lexicon of Chai's
nightly bath. Chai was modest: where Fung and Wing would
go to bathe clad only in their shorts, Chai would enter
the cubicle almost fully dressed. The shirt came off first,
arms raised over the head, stomach muscles tensing, rib cage
lifting upwards, lovely and fluid under the skin, before Chai
re-emerged, silky dark hair ruffled, to fold the shirt, and
hang it over the half-door. Then, behind the shield of the door
, his hands would go lower, unknotting the sash from about his
waist, untying the string of his trousers. He was built narrow
and slight and fine; Fung caught his breath every time on that
moment which was hidden from him. Next came the bend from the
waist, hands running down over thigh and calf, feet lifted to
step out of the garment, and then another shake and the trousers
folded beside the shirt, neatly, for Chai was as compulsively
tidy as he was modest. Last of all, those small clever hands
came back up to his waist, and into Fung's imagination, to untie
and lower his shorts: every night, at that point, Fung bit his
lip, and turned away for an instant, touching control. An instant
only, and then he'd turn back for the next stage in the dance.
Bending for water, Chai damped himself all over, gasping with the
cold. Droplets formed in his hair and ran down his spine, his shoulders, his ribs. Fung watched them out of sight, tasting
need on his tongue. Soap next, and the long sweet play of movement,
as Chai bent, and stretched, and twisted, cleaning, touching,
finding. His hands were sure and swift, sliding over himself with
a clear and innocent facility. Fung envied them, followed them
with eyes and heart, and held silence. This part, and this, yes,
and this also, he had touched himself, in training. But he had
never touched his colleague-brother with such artless pleasure,
and doubtless never would. He watched the neat hands moving,
and relocated them across himself, first down the throat,
then over ribs and shoulders, quick and careful. And then a second
time his teeth would tighten on his lip, and he would shift a
little on his bench, lest Chai should look over, and see into
his thoughts. And then water again, to rinse clean, quickly now,
for the sun was down, and Chai was always one to feel the cold.
Water-blinded, he reached for the towel, and dried himself
roughly, shivering visibly all the while. The last act, and
the safest: once in every long while, Fung would indulge himself,
and join in at this point, rising to pass the towel over the door,
then leaning on it, face averted almost enough, while Chai dried
himself, and dressed. Sometimes, but not this time. His body was to
apt to betray him, tricked by fantasy into a response he did not wish to reveal. He shifted again, dropped his hands into his lap, and
tried to look lazy, as Chai emerged from the cubicle, dressed and
shivering.
"If it's so cold, you should do your washing earlier," Fung said.
"If you bathed faster, I wouldn't have to wait until it was cold."
Chai gave a final rub to his hair, and came to join Fung on the bench.
"I work harder than you, I need the extra time."
Fung moved up to make space for his colleague-brother, and smiled
to take out the sting. Chai snorted in derision, and smiled back.
Fung remembered in time not to catch his breath. It was just another
smile; Chai smiled at him a dozen times a day. And a dozen times,
Fung's heart leapt within him.
There was no particular logic to it. Most people, looking
at Chai, would see little beyond youth and fitness. He was too
thin, for one thing. His skin was blemished, here and there. His
teeth, shown in that smile, were crooked. As seen by the world,
Fung, with his height and his elegance, and his hawk-like looks,
was by far the more handsome. Women turned to look at him beneath
their lashes when he passed, and brushed against him, deliberate-
accidental, in the market. Had he wished, and had he been certain he
might evade Wong sifu's vigilance, he might have slept in unfamiliar,
comfortable, beds, every night. Tonight, with Wong sifu away, and
troublesome Lam Sai-Wing tucked safely into his own home, Fung had
every opportunity to seek some outside comfort. Chai would keep his
secret. Chai, the mouthy rich kid with the insecure streak wider than
his wide eyes, was a good colleague-brother, and a good friend.
Running a hand through his damp hair, he shifted on the bench, and
leant against Fung. Fung closed his eyes against the sun that had
now gone down, and pretended not to hear the hunger in his veins.
A woman would take the edge off, if he could but find a woman
with Chai's smile and eyes and clean long bones. A woman would
buy him a half hour of oblivion and three days of regret. Fung
moved away from the cool pressure of Chai's shoulder, and stretched.
He said, careful, casual, "How about some tea?"
"Certainly, if you're making it."
"More respect, sai-lou."
Chai looked at him, eyes speaking mock-reproach. He had a regiment
of expressions lodged within those dark eyes, and Fung was vulnerable
to every single one of them. He stared back, and spoke sharply to
protect himself.
"You need the discipline."
Mock-reproach turned real. Chai rose, drawing into himself. Fung saw
him swallow, and cursed himself. He had not meant to hurt... He had
not meant to probe the sore edges of Chai's self-doubt.
Chai gave him a short, formal bow, and said "Thank you for the lesson,
daaih go. I'll fetch your tea."
"Chai-jai..." But by the time Fung had fought free of his regret and
could speak again, Chai had gone inside.
******
As it turned out, although the tea was made, there was no opportunity
to drink it. Chai was about to pour it, when the gates swung open and
Master Kao burst in with his henchmen. He would not listen to denials
of Wong Fei-Hung's presence, bent on some confused mission of vengeance
against their sifu and the equally absent Lam Sai-Wing.
Within minutes, Fung had a fight on his hands, and his attention torn,
as he strove to hold off the attacks of Kao's monkey-pole specialist
and simultaneously watch out for how Chai was faring against Iron Fan.
He paid for his divided thoughts in bruises, and a cracking blow across
his shins from the Monkey King. By that time, Chai's section of the
fight had travelled indoors, and Fung put his mind to defeating his own
opponent. He had just about done that when Lam Sai-Wing turned up, and
promptly instigated a new bout. They drove off the invaders, at the
last, but not before Master Kao had badly injured Wing.
Breathless, Fung had time only to look across at Chai, and ask "Are you
all right."
"Why wouldn't I be?" Chai's dark eyes were still resentful. And then,
"We'd better take Wing to some-one who can help him."
Chai's resentment didn't last, of course. He was of the feline breed,
given to quick anger and equally quick forgetfulness. By the time they
had taken Wing to shelter and fetched Beggar San, who had some healing
skill, Chai seemed oblivious of the minor hostility. His attention was on Wing, and, later, upon the need to fetch home Wong sifu to handle
the trouble which seemed to be brewing. And yet, to Fung, who had made
long habit of observing his colleague-brother, something in his manner
was strained.
Throughout their journey to Fatshan, Chai was his usual mouthy self,
with one exception. If Fung mentioned the fight in Po Chi Lam, Chai
would just go silent on him. They had little money - at night, they
slept rough, back-to-back for warmth, and Fung woke up every single
time that he heard Chai weeping. And, each time, he kept still, and
pretended to sleep. He could not afford to surrender to the instinct
within himself to turn and offer comfort. He had secrets of his own to
keep. And by the time they reached Fatshan, the distress, whatever it
was, was over.
The journey back was swifter and less basic, for Wong sifu had money
for inns. On their warm communal pallet, Fung slept worse than he had
done on the cold hard ground. Wong sifu noticed, and made him drink
medicinal tea. It did not help at all: he could not sleep with Chai
curled against him, almost within his arms, and Wong sifu on the other
side of Chai. The nights were growing cooler, and Chai shivered in his
sleep, and moved closer to the warm of his colleague-brother. Night
after night, Fung lay awake, skin burning with the awareness of contact
and forbidden hunger. He would doze off before dawn, and wake late to
find Chai's head on his shoulder. Attempts to persuade their master to
take the warmest middle position inevitably failed: not even Wong sifu
was immune to Chai's silent, reproachful agonies of cold. Fung had
never in his life been so relieved to see Po Chi Lam as he was at the
end of that trip home. Not even the sight of Wing brawling right
outside the gate could dent his relief.
******
It was a week after that that the nightmares started. By then, they
were all almost back into their usual routine. It was winter, and the
students brought their pallets into the main room, next to the big
stove. It was Chai's first winter with them, and he had a tendency to
creep in his sleep against his colleague-brothers, but the presence of
big Wing made a safe buffer, and Fung could sleep largely free from
the fear of exposure. All the same, he resisted the temptation to spy
on Chai's bathing. What had once been harmless voyeurism had become all
too dangerous to his self-control. And, anyway, something was wrong
with Chai. He still would not talk about that fight, and when Wong sifu
pressed him, he got the shakes so badly that their master,
uncharacteristically, let the matter drop.
Later, he called Fung aside and asked again. Fung described what he had
seen, denied all knowledge of any injury done to Chai, and kept
complete silence on the matter of the weeping.
That was the night that Chai had the first nightmare. He woke Fung up
with it, crying out. Startled into wakefulness, Fung looked round
wildly, to see his colleague-brother sitting upright, one hand pressed
to his mouth, the other wrapped about his knees, shaking. Wing snored
on, unnoticing.
"What happened?" Fung said. "Chai-jai?"
Chai was breathless. He dropped his face onto his knees where Fung
couldn't see it, and said "Nothing... a dream... I think I need some
water."
Fung padded barefoot to fetch it. By the time he returned, Chai had
himself under control again, and thanked him nicely. His crooked grin
was forced, and Fung wanted to hold him so badly it hurt. Instead, he
rolled himself back up in his bedding, and pretended to go back to
sleep. Two nights later, it happened again, and two more after that,
and then every night. Chai grew heavy-eyed and made mistakes. Wong sifu
went from tolerance to irritation to, finally, annoyance. The fourth
time Chai broke something, the master beat him.
Fung helped him put liniment on his bruises. It was the first time in
months he had touched Chai without any intrusive thoughts.
As the younger man put his shirt back on, Fung said "Why don't you tell
sifu about the dreams?"
"Because they're stupid." Chai re-emerged from the shirt, and glared at
Fung.
"What are they about?"
"Nothing." Chai looked down, hesitated, looked back.
"Iron Fan." And went out to perform the hundred stretches which were
the other part of his unishment.
Three days after that, Chai lost his balance in training and broke his
wrist.
Wong sifu set the bones, looked Chai over, and said, calmly, "Go back
to your father's house, Lau Chai."
Chai's eyes turned round with fear, and it was Fung, and not him, who
winced, as he dropped to his knees.
"Sifu, please, no. I swear I'll work harder."
"And who is to care for you while you heal?"
"I can care for myself."
Wong sifu studied him. "Ah Chai, I am about to go to Hong Kong, and
take Ah Wing with me. Ah Fung cannot mind both Po Chi Lam and you."
Fung took a step forward "Sifu, I..."
Wong sifu held up a hand. "In your father's house, there are servants
who can help you."
"I don't need help!" Chai looked up, despite custom. "I can look after
myself."
"Can you?" The master was not convinced.
Fung watched Chai swallow hard, and look down in a gesture that was
less respect than a need to hide tears. It was not his business, not
his place to interfere between the master and his younger colleague
brother. He risked a sidelong glance at Wong sifu: the master's face
was expressionless. Fung decided. In one motion, he dropped to the
floor.
"Well?" Wong sifu did not sound pleased.
Fung bit down on his nerves, and said, "Sifu, please let Ah Chai stay.
I ... I could use the practice with caring for such injuries."
It was a lie of the first order, so blatant that he was certain Wong
Fei-Hung must hear it. He did not dare look up. Beside him, Chai
shivered. There was a short silence.
Then Master Wong said, "So be it,-then." Fung raised his eyes to find
his master studying him thoughtfully. "But I will have no trouble, Ah
Fung, or you will suffer for it."
"Yes, sifu."
"Ah Chai!" Chai did not look up. Wong sifu continued, "Obey your
colleague-brother in all things."
"Yes, sifu," Chai said, to the floor.
*****
It was an unusually subdued Chai who stood alongside Fung to see Master
, Wong and Wing off several days later.
If he had dreamt the night before, he had not disturbed Fung with it,
but his eyes were dark circled, and he wasn't eating. It was early
morning, and bitterly cold: Chai stood hunched against the cold,
fighting to prevent his teeth from chattering. Watching him, Fung made
a private vow that before Master Wong returned he would get to the
bottom of what ever it was that was disturbing his colleague-- brother.
But it did him no good: Chai, for whom the hardest punishment of all
was to remain silent for a mere quarter of an hour, just wasn't
talking. Fung's heart ached to see him, but with So present most of the
day, and the slow trickle of patients, it was almost nightfall before
he had opportunity to pursue the matter. It had long been too cold for
outside bathing: instead, the students made do with a shallow pan of
lukewarm water in the kitchen, washing as fast as possible to escape
the drafts. Since his accident, Chai had been skimping even on that,
having difficulty managing with only one hand. He was fastidious: that
went with his compulsive tidiness, and Fung knew that his uncleanliness
was causing him grief.
All to the good. Fung needed something, some lever, against the armour
of silent pain, and that would do as well as any. A little before
sunset, he set water to beat in the biggest pan, and dragged an old
half barrel in from the store. He washed himself, as usual, and then
called in Chai. The younger man regarded him suspiciously. Fung stared
levelly back.
"You need a bath."
"It's too cold, daaih-go."
"You haven't washed properly for a week, and I'm tired of smelling
you."
The look Chai gave him expressed quite plainly that he could win awards
at national level for his cruelty and callousness. Fung hardened his
heart.
"You have a choice: bathe yourself, or I'll throw you in fully
dressed." He waited an instant, then added, "Sifu left me in charge."
Chai said absolutely nothing. But the anger in the speaking eyes could
have stripped paint. One-handed, he began to unfasten his jacket. Fung
leant on the doorjamb, and reminded himself to keep breathing.
Compassion, and another, baser instinct, urged him to move, to help.
Chai shrugged the jacket off, awkwardly, and reached for the hem of his
shirt. A long line of dark bruising reached around the sweep of his
ribs: stretching upwards, he winced, and bit his lip. He had managed,
somehow, to get thinner: the hollows above his collarbones were more
marked than ever. He dropped the shirt on the floor, and probed the
bruise, carefully, with his one good hand, before moving to his sash.
Fung's mouth went dry. He was here to help, not to indulge himself.
Chai unknotted the sash and began to unwind it from his ridiculously
narrow waist. They were moving, now, into new waters. Fung folded his
arms across his chest, holding onto himself, reaching for calm. Chai
dropped the sash and undid the cord at the waist of his trousers. Fung
reminded himself, firmly, that they touched in innocence a hundred
times a day. In the summer, they had swum half-naked in the river
together. Chai stepped out of his trousers. He was built on narrow
lines, long slight bones, clean layer of light muscle: the kind of
frame that would not bulk up even if he were to lift heavy weights as a
matter of course. The body of an acrobat, or a runner, deceptively
frail, where Fung was well-built and broad shouldered. He hesitated,
hands on his shorts. Fung hesitated in turn, then, politely, turned
his back. Not a moment too soon: he was in severe danger of forgetting
himself, of reaching out and touching. At a sharp gasp from Chai, he
turned again, to find his colleague brother just re-emerging from
beneath the surface of the water. Water ran off his black hair and
dripped over the planes of face, and throat, and shoulder, and back.
Still gasping, he said "Hot ... hot water!"
"It's good for those bruises," Fung said, firmly.
"It stings." But Chai's heart wasn't in his whining, Fung could hear
that.
He reached for the soap and began, one-handed, to lather his hair. His
face was averted. Fung held silent, caught on that old, half-familiar,
play of neat motion. Scoop of water to rinse, then the half-turn in
the water, a reach again for the soap, as Chai began to wash the rest
of himself, careful, fluid, graceful ... His bandaged and abused hand
was draped carefully above the water, along the edge of the tub.
Twisting to try and reach a point on his back, Chai banged it against
the wood, dropped the soap over the side, and swore.
Fung could not remember having ever beard him resort before this to
profanity. Chai groped for the soap a few times, missed, and slammed
the injured hand against the frame in fury. A cold chill ran down
Fung's spine.
Quickly, he said, "Here, sai-lou, let me help you."
He gathered the soap from the floor and offered it back.
Chai glared at him. "I don't need your help!"
His eyes were bright with anger, and some other thing. Fung held his
ground. Chai glared some more, then reached out, and knocked the soap
from his hand.
"Why don't you just leave me alone?"
Fung said nothing. There was an instant of stillness. Fung watched the
water run from the ends of Chai's hair. Then Chai rose to his knees,
and, quite abruptly, lashed out at him with his bad hand. The blow
caught Fung across the cheek: his eyes widened a little in shock. Chai
gave a cry of pain, and pulled the hand back against himself, curling
up away from Fung. His breathing was fast and ragged. Fung watched him
for a few moments, then went to pick up the soap.
He put it down beside the tub, then sat down himself on a nearby stool,
watching the shiver in Chai's shoulders. He kept silent.
Finally, face still averted, Chai said "Fung-go..."
"Yes?"
"I didn't mean ... That is, I..." The voice was cool, and level, and
entirely too emotionless.
Fung forgot all his intentions of aloofness. He reached out a hand to
touch one shoulder, half-expecting Chai to shake him off. There was a
pause.
Then Chai said "I'm hopeless, aren't I?"
Fung didn't know what to say: words were not his forte. He stroked the
wet dark hair with his fingers.
Chai went on, "When I came here, no-one believed I'd last. I was just
another spoilt rich brat with no dedication. I thought I could change
that, but I was wrong, wasn't I?"
"I don't know," Fung said, quietly.
"It's no good, just wanting something. You have to have the ... the
guts, too." Chai's voice had dropped almost to the point of
inaudibility. He swallowed, and added "Sifu was right, I should just go
home."
His skin was smooth and damp under Fung's hand. Despite the heat, a
tremor was running though it, over and over. Tension knotted along the
line of bone and sinew.
Fung reached for some comfort, and instead found himself saying "Is
this about Iron Fan?"
There was a long silence. Then Chai straightened and pulled away. He
turned to face Fung: his face was wet with more than the bathwater, but
he had an odd dignity for all that. He said "I didn't want to kill
him, but it happened."
Fung remembered those nights of distress on the road to Fatshan, the
nightmares, and said "He was trying to kill you."
"I know. But sifu doesn't like to kill..."
"Nor do you, Chai-jai," Fung spoke gently, fighting an need to renew
their physical contact, warm and hungry with sympathy.
"I was scared," Chai was pensive, "and I was upset, at first. And then
it stopped, and I thought it was over." He hesitated, bit his lip.
"But you started to dream about it?"
"Not exactly." Chai looked away, cradling his abused hand. "I dream
about that fight, but it isn't Iron Fan any more."
He started to shake again, and Fung had to sit on his hands to prevent
himself simply reaching out to hold him.
"It isn't Iron Fan," Chai repeated. He looked round, and his dark eyes
were stripped of all defences. "It's you, Fung-go."
Fung's face emptied of expression. He had no response, caught up in a
confusion all his own. From a distance, he heard himself say "You
should finish that bath before the water gets cold,"
Chai dropped his face onto his knees, and began to weep. Five years
difference in age, and eight in seniority deserted Fung in an instant:
reaching out, he pulled Chai into his arms, and held on, tight. A
slippery warm knot of bone and muscle and sinew, shivering.
Fung rested his cheek against the damp hair, said "Never mind, sai-lou,
it's all right."
Indistinctly, Chai said "No, it's not; you don't understand," and,
underneath his confusion of tenderness, Fung found a smile for that
well- worn cry of the young to their elders.
He was getting soaked through where he held Chai against him, and
his skin was burning. He slid one hand round to touch the line of
cheekbone and jaw, and Chai leant into it. He needed comfort,
nothing else, anything more would be an abuse of authority... The
voices of duty and need were loud in Fung's ears. He buried his face
in Chai's wet hair and groaned. Chai was young and lonely and
confused, this was just the confusion and the fear talking, it meant
nothing ... Chai's good hand wound itself up around his waist, and
held on. Fung looked up. He said, "Sai-lou, don't."
"Don't why?" Chai's eyes were red, but his face was calm and
determined. "Don't because you don't think it's proper, or don't
because you really don't want me to? I'll stop if it's what you want,
but I won't stop just for propriety." He hesitated, smiled a ghost
of his crooked grin, "I'm used to getting my own way."
Fung wanted to give in so much he could taste it. But he was in charge
here, and all his long months of yearning were no excuse at all... He
bit his lip, and said, very softly, "It wouldn't be right."
Chai pulled away. Back to Fung, he stepped out of the tub, and began
to dry himself one-handed. Fung did not even have the heart to watch.
He rested his brow on the rim of the tub, and stared at the floor.
Well, he had done what he intended, and got to the bottom of the
trouble afflicting his colleague-brother. And a lot of good it had done
the pair of them. He could hear Chai muttering softly to himself as he
struggled one-handed. Ten minutes ago, he could have offered to help.
Now, nothing would ever be the same again.
"Just tell me one thing," Chai said. "Just for the hell of it. If
you're so hung up on propriety, why did you use to hang around and
watch me bathing?"
"I didn't..." Fung said to the floor, and cursed himself for a bad
liar.
"No?" Chai laughed without mirth. He sounded more hurt than angry,
though. "If you say so."
Fung could bear anything but this renewal of pain. He looked up, and
found Chai gazing at him with eyes that were wide and hungry. Chai was
wearing only the towel, wrapped around that narrow waist. Water still
ran unheeded over his chest and arms. Need burned along Fung's veins.
He wrapped his arms about himself. Chai watched him for long,
motionless, moments. Then he dropped the towel. Light long bones, light
muscle, slim waist, neat hips, damp, a little too thin. His breath was
a slow tide under his bruised ribs. His speaking eyes were level, and
a little regretful. Fung found himself shaking, remembered to breathe,
wished he were stone, to ignore the insistent ache inside himself.
Chai said "You're lovely. I never minded you watching, I liked it. I
used to hope you'd offer to wash my back."
Still, Fung said nothing.
"When you stopped watching, I was sorry. I missed the excitement." The
crooked smile ghosted, briefly, "I'm quite grown up, Fung-go."
That much was apparent from his body. Fung looked away. He heard Chai
sigh, and say, "No? Then I'm sorry to have embarrassed you, daaih-go."
A pause. "And I do admire your stoicism, given that I'm more than
willing, and I've known for months that you are."
The rest had been a little pushy, but the last sentence was pure
impudence. Fung's head snapped up, and he found that Chai, silently,
was laughing at him.
Fung made a grab for him. Chai dodged, caught a foot in the towel, and
went down in a heap. As he fell, he snaked out his good arm, and pulled
Fung down after him. They landed in a tangle on the floor, Fung on top.
Chai was still laughing. Fung made another grab, caught his good hand,
and pinioned it to the tiles. Then he bent his head, and began to trace
the lines of water that ran over Chai's chest with his tongue. The skin
tasted of warmth and soap. Chai gave a gasp, and buried his face
against Fung's neck. His crooked teeth were sharp: he sank them into
Fung's ear briefly, then began to trace a burning path down Fung's
throat with his lips. Fung shivered, and let his hand go. His own hands
began to travel, over flat stomach and flank to the smooth muscle of
buttock and thigh. Chai moved against him, sliding his good hand down
the line of Fung's spine, before tugging at his t-shirt. Fung pulled
away long enough to tug it off over his head. Chai watched him with
dark calm eyes, then raised himself on an elbow to lick at one nipple.
That felt good. Fung turned them both a little, and continued his own
explorations. He wanted this so much he was shaking. Chai's hand untied
his sash, and slid under the drawstring of his trousers. Fung caught
his breath, gasping, then bent his head. The arch of Chai's collarbone
was sweet and deceptively frail. Fung tasted it, kissed the hollow,
felt Chai groan. He bit down on the bone, and Chai shuddered. Quick
fingers worked at the drawstring, untying it and pushing the trousers
down over Fung's strong thighs. Chai was moving rhythmically against
him, hungry and over-anxious. Fung pushed him away, and rolled free.
The dark eyes went wide.
"Patience," Fung said, and was rewarded with a burning stare.
Fung stripped off his own last garments, slowly, enjoying the look in
Chai's watching eyes. Chai reached up and ran his hand over the wide
shoulder, the strong line of chest and rib.
Fung kept still and waited. When the warm hand reached lower, he caught
it, and moved it back up. Chai bit his lip.
Fung shook his head at him, then leant down to kiss him. It was a total
surrender. Chai's lips opened under his, without hesitation. Chai's
slight slim frame curved up to meet him, welcoming. Fung held him, and
revelled in the sweetness of skin on skin. He ran his hands again over
the narrow ribs, careful of the bruising. Chai shivered, and his other
hand, the bad one, reached up to Fung's face. They kissed some more.
Fung pulled the younger man against him, cupping a palm around the
curve of one buttock, savouring the firmness, holding Chai close. Chai
was shivering hard, but his skin was burning. Fung slid one warm hand
between them, and ran gentle fingers over the very tip of Chai's
erection. Chai turned his face away, biting into Fung's shoulder to
stifle a groan. As Fung's hand moved, he arched his back and his head
fell back. The dark eyes were closed. Fung kissed the lids, and kept
moving. One of Chai's thighs moved between his, pressing on his own
aching erection: Fung moved back against it, savouring the sweet waves
of hunger and sensation, warm, enraptured.
Chai's breath was a sob in his ear, Chai himself a helpless weight in
his arms, utterly possessed. Fung's hand moved faster, and Chai moaned,
thrusting back at him mindlessly. Fung's other hand slid round under
him, and slid into the warm cleft between his buttocks. Soft skin and
beat. Carefully, Fung moved and slid two fingers into the narrow
passage there. Chai shuddered against him, and came violently into his
hand. Fung thrust against the flat plain of the younger man's abdomen,
and climaxed in turn, in desperate, delicious waves. There was a long
stillness, broken only by ragged breathing, as they held onto to each
other.
Then Fung raised his head, and looked down into dark, submissive eyes.
He said "Next time you aren't getting your own way don't make such a
fuss. Just ask.
"But will I get what I want?" Chai asked, plaintively.
Fung bit him.
The End_
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