satin birds — marcus & yan

[fox]

► ► ►

Mother,

Time passes quickly here. The strange tedium of routine makes the days short. I try to fill my free time with useful things, less I grow stagnant in pattern.

I think I'm the only person who actually reads at OCS, at least beyond the compulsory peacekeeping doctrines and field manuals. Lately, I've been interested in books written by commanders of the First Rebellion, and I'm becoming extremely proficient in land navigation. It is never enough to only know your enemy. Terrain is always the third force in any battle. I have dissected the treatise on the rebel invasion a dozen times now – the failure is always in the route they chose.

Nine is as abysmal as ever. It rains with torrential fury, as if even mother nature despises the district like a stubborn stain on her earth. The streets have been sludge for weeks, and I can't imagine a season reminiscent of the delicate spring I grew up with. The academy is nice of course, but there's a perpetual shabbiness that seems stitched into the fabric of the district. I have the most indescribable ambition to leave, but not without what I came for.

These days, they only send special forces or graduates of colleges to the Capitol. The academy informed me that I'll be eligible to continue my studies there as an officer if I graduate high enough on the merit list and keep myself competitive.

I know you are worried for my well-being, but that is why I stay at Nine now instead of stationing as a private in One. I view this not as a setback but as a method to further distinguish myself from the hoi polloi. (Some laughable thing from Twelve gawked at a computer on his first day here. Archaic. I have no idea how he passed the examination.)

I know my father has been busy after the industry change. I haven't heard from him recently, but I hope the conversion of the refining factory was successful. I imagine he must be under tremendous stress with business, but let him know that I am available to call in the evenings on Sundays if he ever needs me.

Mother, I hope you are well. Give my best to Phil. You can rest assured knowing I am doing excellent at school and training.

Yours,
Marcus

♦

Spring is ugly in Nine.

When the snow finally melts, the buildings are rust-bitten from the lick of frost, metal corrugated, the windows streaked with a black film of dirt. Like everything else in Nine, it's terribly drab if not murderously unpleasant. The sharp new peacekeeping academies look brutal in the decrepit landscape, hulking in concrete.

They go over the same narrative, the same conversations in old bars on their nights off, the irritation of being stationed in backwater Nine that borders on something treasonous but never quite. It's a benign displeasure. Their complaints never veer into criticism of the Capitol.

Because it's Nine itself that Marcus hates of course, and it's their corruption that made it entirely impossible for the Capitol to not intervene. They were here, not because of the fault of the High Council, but because of Nine's criminal citizens.

Still, it's fucking awful.

In April, the smog finally relents to a splinter of blue sky as the factories shutter. The same night, Marcus sees Yan Li on stage. He's dressed in a rippling cerulean silk, dazzling in jewelry, face painted like a flower. The old warehouse washes clean in the glow of him.

He feels his stomach lurch painfully as the light becomes pure and blinding, and it's strange how he suddenly, unquestionably feels like Yan's presence could turn all things precious silver.

There is a viciously simple feeling. He wants him. And like all things in his life, what he wants, he gets.

Spring in Nine.

♦

First, it's a dozen red roses.

And then two dozen the week after. But a stagehand simply takes them after the show, and Marcus never catches that elusive glimpse of Yan Li after he steps off the stage.

The third week, he chooses a bunch of teal carnations wrapped in gold paper.

The interior of the opera house resembles the luxury he knew in Two, albeit faintly, but the exterior has none of the architectural flourishes of a true palatial space. He observed this the first time, how they dressed it up with soft velvet and fine wood, filled it with well-dressed patrons and expensive décor. And yet, in it's foundation, in it's beams, it remains a warehouse. He doesn't care for it. Nor does he really care for the arias or the costumes.

This time, he makes his way towards the backstage with a singular intention, dressed in his pristine peacekeeper uniform, bored of waiting for acquiescence. The rest of the peacekeepers pay him no attention, already heading towards the bar, stretching their limbs from the long sit. Soon, they would get drunk and forget all about his absence.

Warily, the other guests clear a path for him. A stagehand collects the flowers; he looks at him expectantly, arms outstretched to receive the bouquet. But Marcus rolls his shoulders back slightly with a lazy, tilted smile.

"I want to deliver these to Mr. Li myself."

The kid stares at him, stuttering to a stop.

He glances slightly to the left of him, before returning his gaze with palpable nervousness. "Sir, let me ask, please wait a moment –"

And Marcus smiles a little wider, showing teeth. He speaks with an idle kind of drawl, the Two accent just barely perceptible. "Funny. I don't remember asking." Two years in boarding school with the esteemed elite hides his spitefulness behind leisure, casual until it feels like a blow to the stomach.

The stagehand pales, eyes furiously darting between his left and Marcus. Another man finally materializes into the empty space the boy had been staring it.

He watches this new person appraise the situation. Somehow, this man feels even easier to bully, hunched over without being hunched over, as if his spine is perpetually wound-up from stress. Something about him resembles a skittish creature. He watches how his eyes brush quickly across his chest, but the bouquet willfully hides the officer candidate insignia on his uniform.

"Sir," the man attempts, tries the title, and Marcus makes no indication of acknowledgement or correction. Instead, he laughs lightly. "The backstage seems to require more security clearance than a Capitol building." He clasps his hand on the man's shoulder, becoming impatient, smile nearly a sneer. "I'm sure there's no reason a peacekeeper can't see one of the civilians he's devoted himself to protecting?"

There's a satisfaction in watching his face flush, that heavy, filling smugness. He very badly wants to laugh at the bug-eyed expression on his face.

"Oh, no sir, of course not," he manages, tense underneath his hand. But Marcus is feeling generous today, he allows for the briefest moment of interlude, loosening his grasp, and hastily the man gathers himself and shoos the stagehand away — "Inform Yan he has a visitor." The words are hissed between a laboured smile.

A sheen of sweat coats his forehead. Marcus gives his shoulder a pat, turning pleasant again. He's somewhere between boyish and wolfish, polite and ill-tempered, a terror beneath a burnished gold surface. Now, he tilts up his chin and flashes a grin.

"Good, I'm glad we got it figured out."

He's led through a colourful mess, but hardly pays attention to it. Nothing catches his attention in the disorder, largely ignoring the brief tour as the troupe leader, which he introduced himself as, gives snippets of information about the various operations of the opera ("We've been performing since before the war! Recently revived, but peacekeepers have always been welcomed"). It's tiresome honestly, boring, and Marcus says nothing until they reach a marked door.

"Yan Li is our first dan, as you know," Cao (Carl?) comments and he looks so tense that Marcus wonders if he'd shatter if he was touched again. He's itching to test this theory, when the man carefully turns and knocks lightly at the door.

"Mr. Spencer is here," he calls out.

It's not really a lie. He's almost guaranteed to graduate, and none of his seniors are around to scold him. Besides, it isn't like any of these people were going to dare correct him. He smooths out his uniform, squaring his shoulders pointedly.

"Officer," he interjects. "Lieutenant."

[calla]

► ► ►

"Land owners." Cao says, and attempts to leave it at that.

"Okay, but he doesn’t this land." Yan emphasizes with a finger against the desk, jabbing at the pulsepoint of the wood.

Cao only shrugs, avoidant, looking irritable all of a sudden, "Does it matter?"

And yes, it matters. There are bigger problems than a little lyric change if Yan has been unknowingly picking away at the underbelly of the person who may as well own him. The irony of it burns. The contracts are held under the theatre. The theatre is held under Cao. No one's ever stopped to consider that Cao might be held under someone too.

Yan stares at him and feels something in his stomach drop low. The room shrinks by half.

"Just," Busying himself with a stack of papers, Cao looks to anywhere but Yan, "Try not to piss him off." And then bitingly - "As hard as that may be for you."

"Yeah well, too late."

But Cao doesn't seem surprised. He just exhales rather loudly, a short burst of air as his hands still.

"You shouldn't be asking about it."

"Why not?"

"Because you would be expensive to replace."

And that gets the hackles raising automatically. Yan lifts his chin, voice flashing, - "He can't hurt me."

It's a statement. He forcibly stops the lilt at the end, cutting it off before it can possibly become a question.

Cao looks up at that, only watches for another long moment, and then he seems to come to his own conclusion. A tired sort of apathy slides over his face like a projector slide. The image lights up the wall behind him, casting his face in shadow.

"Ah." He says very simply.

Yan's eyes narrow.

"What 'ah'?"

The chair groans as Cao shuts his eyes and brings his hands to his face. A tense heaviness seems to settle over him and he says nothing for several seconds. Then, from behind his palms, a groan - "Of all the-"

Yan's up before he can finish, steamrolling, "It's not like that."

"Uh huh." The sigh gets dragged out by the way he runs his hands down his face. The wrinkles all seem to form back in real time.

“They’re supposed to like me.” Yan protests, “That’s the whole point.”

“Yes.” Cao says flatly, the doubt plain, “That's what's going on - he's here because he likes you.”

“What, are you jealous?”

“I just don’t understand how you’ve deluded yourself into believing anything about you is likeable at all.”

“So you are jealous.”

“Go practice. We’re changing the run back to Peony Pavilion.”

The sudden subject change is not lost on either of them. Yan, in all his graciousness, lets it slide to tackle another, more prominent target, his voice changing again, regaining some of its sharp disinterest.

“Boring. I want to do Jade Hall."

Cao couldn't look more unimpressed if he tried. "You're not singing about wrongful imprisonment to an audience full of Peacekeepers."

"Killjoy. Unicorn Purse, then."

The growing suspicion on Cao's face makes it slacken further. He looks rather silly, like he's just been pinched. But Yan was awfully quick to relent, and with something arguably tame, something where the lead role isn't as glamorous as he'd otherwise demand. It's off-putting.

"You can bring someone up." Yan suggests in an exaggerated sort of casualness, "Give a kid a chance."

And that, perhaps, is what does it. Selflessness is not a card in Yan's deck. Not even remotely. And certainly not selflessness towards another, younger, actor. He's more likely to claw their eyes out than offer them a chair.

"You're up to something."

"It has good solos." He says defensively. "It's civilian, people will get it."

"You're up to something."

"No I'm not."

Childish. Cao looks like he's torn between screaming and putting his head down on the desk.

That means Yan's won.

♦

The kid Cao decides to cast as Tian-Lin, plucked from the scattering of raised hands that claimed to already know the material, is suitably awful. It's obvious that he's nervous, and he throws up before the curtain's drawn, but as soon as he gets to order Yan around on-stage, he comes into the role beautifully.

Yan pretends to dote on him and nearly cracks a tooth from clenching his jaw so hard. He's soft, bowing, gentle in the way a good mother should be, caught in performing an aria about goodness and karmic retribution like it's something he believes in.

"I had thought that wealth and rank were cast in iron." He intones, raising a sleeve to hide his grimace, playing it as wiping away tears. "Who could have known that one's life could so suddenly be altered? I am being taught to restrain my hatred, to begin anew."

Little Tian-Lin screams directly into his ear. Yan is forced to only pat his head and not crush it.

But still, it's worth it. After the show, Lilian peels away the last of the hairpieces while Yan sits wiping at his mouth. He's changed into plainclothes, the character beading off him like rainwater, but there's still hints of makeup around his eyes, dark paint caught in the clumps of his lashes and sticking. Lilian's got her tongue between her teeth, focused on a pin, and Aloys is stretched out over the cot in the corner with his face still on, lazily conducting an invisible orchestra, when a stagehand crashes into the room, out of breath.

"Yan," He wheezes, "There's a Keeper coming to see you."

Lilian meets his eyes in the mirror first, the apprehension and slightly muted panic in her face very clear. Aloys sits up to stare at the kid. Yan remains relatively impassive.

The Unicorn Purse was designed to appeal to the self-entitled ruling class; to reassure them that the people they stomped on wouldn't hold it against them. It's about fluid class change; it promotes harmony. The mighty are brought down, but they can find their way back through good deeds. Loyal deeds. People can rise out of poverty thanks to the great charity of those above them.

It's a pretty little message for a District suddenly upheaved by an elite force. An even prettier message for the force doing the upheaval.

Yan might even pat himself on the back for it, if his ego was any larger.

The lightness of the story works wonders to cloak the social struggles ingrained into it. The comedy hides the animosity between the rich and the poor. There's no romance, but everyone loves to hate Tian-Lin and his annoying childishness. Everyone falls for the earnestness and gentle perseverance of Xue Xiangling, they sympathize with her fall and then her rise.

Yan's pride weathered the blow for the greater good. It was a necessary sacrifice, a propaganda style story meant to draw more Keepers in. He thought that it'd be funny if when Ulysses came back, the crowd was filled wall-to-wall with bleached uniforms. His presence had left a lingering bad taste last time; if Mr. Xie is apprehensive of the influx, then Yan will simply exacerbate the process.

If enough of them come, they might even have to use his box.

"Tell him to talk to Cao?" Aloys suggests dismissively, "He is supposedly the one in charge."

"Laoban's already out there with him, they're on their way."

Lilian presses a thumb to her eye, "Oh my god, Yan, what did you do this time?"

"Nothing!"

The kid in the doorway pipes up again, even though it sounds like he'd rather be anywhere else, the trepidation evident when he says - "He's got flowers."

All three of them freeze.

The room immediately becomes a whirlwind. Yan curses and Aloys is throwing his head back, doing that awful witches' cackle of his at full volume. Lilian starts to move quicker, deftly pulling hair - "OW!?" - and putting everything back into boxes.

"You've got another one." She's saying, "Of course you do. This is a bad idea. This is a very bad idea."

"It'll be fine." Yan says, swatting her violent hands away and cradling his head, "If he's that bad, then Aloys can have him."

Aloys shudders over-dramatically from his throne, hand going up in protest, "Are you insane, I don't want a cop."

Yan has very wisely not told them about Ulysses and his little job.

“Pass me that.” He demands instead, quickly gesturing at the black silk hanging over the screen.

"You say one thing he doesn't like and boom. Arrested." She throws the shirt directly at his head and glares at him, finger in his face, "And we both know that you can't keep your mouth shut."

Yan's eyes narrow, "I can too."

Aloys snorts.

Lilian huffs as she scoops her boxes up, "Don't ruin it for the rest of us. Don't get arrested. Don't get shot. For the love of god, don't-" Her hands flap between them, "Don't do anything stupid."

Aloys gets up to bump his shoulder against Yan's harder than necessary, wagging his eyebrows so the paint jumps, "And if you do happen to do something stupid - we want details."

Yan scoffs as he shrugs the silk on, "Don't be gross. He could be fifty."

"All the more reason you should listen to me." Lilian says right as Aloys quips "Yeah, and?"

"Just get out."

Then they're sweeping away with the poor kid stuffed between them and slamming the door. The room goes from suffocating to cavernous in a second, the juxtaposition jarring enough that it becomes noticeable. There's less than a minute of reprieve before the knock comes. Yan waits the appropriate amount of time for Cao to start squirming before he deems to actually open the door.

He lasers in on reliable Laoban first. Cao's sporting a very specific sheen today, sweating just a little more than the heat of the lights would normally call for. He's got his mouth set and his eyes wide, trying to get a silent message across to Yan, one which Yan has no interest in deciphering. It's easier to bypass him for the much more interesting specimen in the hall.

The Keeper's certainly not fifty. Aloys might be disappointed in that, but likely not in anything else. He shines a little under the lights, but it's hard to tell if that's just from the white of his uniform or the yellow of his hair. He's got an Adonis-like quality to him that might make someone stop and stare on the street. Yan stares too. Not in the same way. He follows the clean-cut lines of his arms and his shoulders like he's performing a rapid dissection. To someone who only ever learned to look for status in the shade of a silk or in the pattern of an embroidery, something about the unblemished surface of the uniform pricks.

But isn't this a good thing? How nice for a Peacekeeper to fall into his lap just when he needs one.

Yan adjusts to cross his arms delicately and lets it change his posture. He flips through a repertoire, picking out bits and pieces to adorn himself with. People like this feel content with their authority. They don't let themselves bleed right if the dynamic shifts too quickly. They play at being heroes. They like it. It's a power trip; one of the best to take in hand and feel the beat of, one of the best to tend to before squeezing and letting the juices run down.

He becomes a fragile little thing. Gentle nurse. Innocent to the law. Pretty like stained glass and just as breakable, all that sharpness sits painted over by crushed pigment and silver filament. He baits a line with sweet earnestness and coyly leans against the doorframe, making a show of looking the Keeper up and down, doing nothing to give away his verdict except smile.

The innocence of the act is painfully artificial. Cao shoots him a dirty look for it. His eyes dart between the Peacekeeper and past Yan’s shoulder into his room. Yan glances at him flatly for the obviousness and then goes right back to saccharine.

"Lieutenant Spencer." He greets pleasantly, feeling his way along, “Am I in trouble?”

[fox]

► ► ►

The knot at Cao's throat rises and falls as he swallows. He raises his hand to knock again, but the door abruptly swings open, and Marcus thinks he looks rather stupid with his arm half-hanging in the air, blinking like an idiot. Honestly, he would have thought he was some middle management philistine that shuffled around ledgers all day and not the alleged artistic visionary of the opera.

Light falls out from the doorway. His gaze shifts from Cao to Yan, mood going from skeptical to fascinated.

Watching from the orchestra, he'd wondered briefly if the stage makeup was hiding some flaw of his, a fault carefully painted over by the elegant lines of a brush, bathed in the vivid fabrics of his costumes. And he had wondered if he might be disappointed to see Yan Li as he truly was – perhaps someone who was abysmally plain once removed from the spotlight. After all, an actor could be anything.

But it had hidden nothing.

Yan is remarkably pretty, made of both softness and shadows. His hair is swept with an elegant casualness, eyes richly dark with the vestiges of black paint, cheekbones highlighted by the golden hue of the light fixture above. He crosses his arms and the delicate motion rolls his sleeves up barely, the muted silk of his shirt gleaming in the dim light. Marcus can imagine grasping his wrist with one hand. He can imagine the butterfly tremor of his pulse and the airiness of his touch.

The recruits at the academy are simply inane. The boys back in Two are boringly common. But Yan smiles, and he catches the light in an elusive way.

There had been others of course. Exceptional people at school he would become infatuated with over the years. But he'd never liked doing the pursuing. He'd come with gifts and compliments too – until boredom made him carelessly callous or rejection lit his temper with a sharp strike of spite.

The problem was that being liked by Marcus was never painless. He expected attention, reciprocated ten-fold. And Yan gives it to him now, eyes brushing over his face, his shoulders, his chest with a coy glance that fills him with fiendish delight.

"Trouble?" He laughs. He steps past the troupe leader in the doorframe, towards the actor, smiling agreeably.

From here, he can see the interior better. The room is cramped. It's an extension of the rest of the backstage, a million odds and ends crammed into spaces, hung on the walls, strewn over furniture. He takes a quick cursory glance around the place and all the junk in it, the smile staying despite the idle distaste at the back of his throat.

It should be a simple thing. Here he is, from the affluent cradle of Two, meeting a poor man from some earnestly provincial production in a horribly dreary city. His uniform feels unusually bright in the dinginess of his surroundings. He's confident when he presents him the carnations, still fresh with dew from the florist. He's wearing the cool assertiveness of power when he leans in slightly to meet his eyes, watching the spider web of shadows casted from Yan's lashes flutter. In hindsight, he should've realized how little control he had in this moment, eager to impress this beautiful boy.

"Not at all." The flowers smell balmy in the small room. "I'm here to see you."

With one smooth gesture, he takes Yan's hand, grasping it to introduce himself, flashing a brilliant smile deep enough for his dimples to appear. "Lieutenant Marcus Spencer."

The lie feels so easy.

"I've seen a number of plays," Marcus says, feigning interest in the artistic quality of an opera he couldn't care less about. "But nothing like this." Like you, is what he means. Now his attention becomes syrupy. He stares at him, eyes travelling from his face, down his jaw, to their hands together. The moment of contact lingers.

But the instant is interrupted by the sound of Cao shuffling forward, and he lets go. Irritation changes his disposition slightly, and his expression falters for a brief second. Marcus turns to face the troupe leader, that beaming grin becoming impersonal.

"Thank you for the tour. I would've been lost otherwise." Airily, with a haughty inflection as he looks around the room, "Ah. It really is something like a maze back here."

It's a blasé comment, dismissive, but it doesn't seem to register to Cao. Or maybe it does, but he's oddly hesitant to leave. "Of course, of course," he says quickly, but his eyes are flickering back and forth between them, and Marcus watches the knot of his throat move with each nervous word. The funny urge to watch him shatter returns. Deliberately, he reaches up and places a hand on Cao's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

He glances back to Yan, who looks up at him demurely. Delicate, he supposes. Maybe the man is protective of his actor, just as anyone would be protective of the source of their livelihood.

No problem, he can be gentle.

For Marcus, there's an ease to his handsomeness, the kind of reassurance that comes with knowing. His mother had doted over her angel-faced child all his life. His teachers were always swayed to believe in his sweetness. It was never a tangible thing he could voice, but strangely he'd always known how much moral value was ascribed to aesthetics. He knows how he carries himself, clean-cut, gold-plated. Incapable of being terrible. At least to those that mattered.

"I'm sure you're busy. Don't let me keep you. I'll find you on the way out Mr. Cao." He puts on his best easy-going smile, remaining polite in front of Yan, but his grip on his shoulder tightens before he finally relinquishes his hold. "I'll only be a few minutes.

It's not a request, not with the uniform on and the finality of his tone, but Marcus is gracious enough to phrase it as such. He says it lightly, near innocently.

"Would you mind me taking some of your time, Mr. Li?"

[calla]

► ► ►

He unfurls, little lily-of-the-valley; the spider retreating deeper and deeper away from the light, scuttling down a petal with its coal polished legs. It nests somewhere cool for the summer, detesting the sun, spinning its own noose.

There is no self-consciousness to Yan like this.

He basks in the praise that comes from a simple glance. A single round of applause sustains him longer than food or drink ever will. The need for this outweighs both hunger and thirst. He will die with an audience or he will not die at all. This is the greed of it - that the more he gains, the more he lacks. In the span of one's flattery, reality turns fleeting.

Marcus watches him in such a way that the hall lights dim.

Yan takes the flowers without looking, too caught up in following the way the shape of Marcus' jaw changes as he speaks.

He's only ever enjoyed powerful people to the extent in which he can wield them. It's never been the power that's attracted him, but rather the bending of it. The breaking of it. He craves the feeling of taking control, of stealing the heartworm's place and burrowing down to the bone, all because of an abandoned little boy who one day decided if he wasn't going to be wanted, he was going to be needed.

"I'm here to see you." Marcus tells him.

Yan feels the fettering of his spine, his expression settling finally into something pleased. He glances down at to where their hands touch, and in doing so catches his gaze on the flowers in his grasp. The smile stays pasted on as he stares at them, only the slightest furrow appearing.

They look a bit like crumpled paper. Like something you'd find on the side of the street.

"Oh, how… unique." He settles on, unable to keep the foreign blandness out of it.

Like a weather vane sensing the impending storm, Cao makes himself known again. Marcus turns to deal with it before Yan can, and it's an interesting thing to watch - this brief and strange battle that the two of them go through. Cao doesn't seem necessarily frightened, but there's a rise to his shoulders that catches the eye. He grows taut under Marcus' touch. Yan watches appraisingly, shooting Cao his sweetest smile and not letting it reach his eyes. This seems to only sour Cao further, the animosity reaching Yan in waves and turning him smug. His expression smoothes back over when Marcus turns.

"I'll be fine, Laoban." He says, trying very hard not to laugh at the notion.

He's fully aware that he's not the one that Cao needs reassurance from. He'll be gentle with this darling little Keeper, he swears.

He becomes a gossamer length, something fluttering, caught in the wind of these two men and settling along the cross breeze. The silk sleeves hide the blade of him, hands always outstretched, always reaching, beckoning.

Certain children grow up playing with knives. The cuts skip against the knuckles the way a stone skips across a pond. There's an attractiveness in the red of the blood that dulls the scales of the fish. The pond becomes unattractive. There is nothing but the knife. There is nothing but this; this power, this attention. This is the aspect of self awareness Yan doesn't possess and likely never will. There's a pale burn pressed to the curve of his shoulder. There's an allure to the bird that returns to its cage out of its own free will. Infants weaned on black tar never grow up quite right.

"Would you mind me taking some of your time?" Marcus is kind enough to ask.

"You can take whatever you like, Lieutenant."

Cao visibly lurches at this. Yan doesn't look at him. He moves to the side to let Marcus in, but Cao steps forward at the same time.

He attempts to insert himself, his panic beginning to bleed out to the floor, "Wouldn't you rather speak out in the-"

"You obviously missed a room on the tour, Laoban." Yan interrupts, his annoyance beginning to prod like a hot iron. "I'll take over now."

Here, with Marcus hidden behind Yan's shoulder, Cao's expression twitches. He inhales shortly, and it's recognizable as the prelude to something stupid and callous. He's about to say something he thinks will make him look big and will make Yan feel small.

Yan closes the door in his face before he can get it out.

He knows he'lll pay for that later, since Daming has seemingly taken it upon himself to finally attempt the tender growth of a spine, but it's satisfying enough to see the split second of his splutter before the hinges click. There's been something brewing in the troupe leader lately, all that anxious energy culminating into a hairline fracture that causes him to snap quicker. There's a short desperation etched into his outline, grotesque by nature; he spends more time in his office than out of it, turning himself sallow and short-tempered and shifty.

He might be killing himself. Although Yan doesn't particularly care.

He turns and steps deeper into the room, touching the ruffled edge of a carnation in mock-thought. The tip of his finger comes away wet and he dumps the bouquet on the vanity rather unceremoniously.

"He can be a bit much." Yan says, apologizing without really apologizing at all, rounding the room and slipping through a sympathy ploy like it's water. His voice pitches differently, hiding the impatient slyness under a perfect veneer of innocence, "It's just that he worries - we get all sorts of types here. I'm sure I don't need to tell you how Nine can be."

The underbelly of the district is no secret; even the tourists know which streets to avoid. To simply exist here is to be hardened. Yan pokes tenderly at that ego, assesses the feeling of Lieutenant against his teeth, tries to decide whether or not he finds the boy in the role of big strong man lacking. Thinks, maybe, it doesn't matter.

"You liked the show." He prompts, ploying for praise again, that tumultuous ego curling upwards to bask. He already knows the answer he wants when he leans away, daring with a glimpse of fragility, "Any part in particular?"

[fox]

► ► ►

He takes the bouquet, looking away from his eyes, down to their hands together, then shyly to the sweet ruffles of teal. The bashful expression of his gratitude, how he stutters to find his words while staring at the flowers – it makes Marcus smile, amused at his diffidence.

"I sent roses the last time," he says, following his gaze to the carnations before settling back on his face. "But I thought the blue matched you. I'm glad you like them."

Because why wouldn't Yan like them when the flowers were coming from someone like him? There is an artifice that Marcus puts on too. Pleasant, polite Marcus, who always smiles at the right moments, studious and athletic, rich and educated, earnest but still mannered – who hadn't been initially charmed by him?

They fall into their roles so easily.

Yan lets him pretend to be someone great, and Marcus overlooks the glint of teeth beneath the pleasantries of the ingénue he's supposed to save. They're nothing alike and a mirror to each other all at the same time. Children in costumes, searching for something in each other that they never had.

And then, he says the next perfect line,

"You can take whatever you like, Lieutenant."

The attention feeds him. The attention draws him deeper in, and he follows the feeling, swallowing the giddiness bubbling in his stomach before laughing lightly.

He feels the sweet way those words sink in, watches the sway of Yan's body as he steps aside. There is something catlike about him, silk draping over every movement like water, primal in his grace. Marcus traces the lines of his body, from the hollows of his collar down to his chest, and then makes a point to catch himself, averting his gaze politely but without the ugly flusteredness of being caught doing anything wrong. Because he isn't doing anything wrong, he never is if he simply acts like he's right.

Yan turns to Cao, and Marcus turns to the room.

The troupe leader is particularly stubborn. And Marcus feels the annoyance settling into his frame, the ease of his posture threatening to snap. He'd be far more overt in his viciousness if Yan wasn't here. He'd have Cao in pieces by now.

Instead, he feigns having his attention fixed on the birds on the standing screen while waiting for the stupid man to leave, trying to disguise his impatience as something else.

Strangely, the space feels somehow baroque in its shabbiness, the little ornate details of life catching his casual observation – a chip in the table, paint peeling at the floorboards, dust on the light fixture. He's seen enough beautiful things in his life, raised on family heirlooms, raised to be particularly discerning of wealth.

He could imagine showing Yan his mother's house in Two, with the imported palms in the foyer, earthy-toned furniture designed in the Capitol, the careful layout following sacred geometries. And then, his father's home, with the rugs of vintage sheepish skin, the fountains, the crystal chandeliers. The sad attempts at decorating nearly make him feel pity for Yan's devotion to beauty. It's unfortunate he was born in a place like this. He could be so much more.

Yan plays poor Xue Xiangling, and Marcus can hardly tell the difference.

Behind him, the door closes, and he turns to see them alone now. He burns a little brighter, filling the new space in the room.

Finally.

Yan is his.

He lays the carnations on the vanity. He seems a little apologetic as he speaks, and Marcus thinks himself rather gracious for ignoring the unpleasant cramped quality of the room, even more so for forgiving Cao's intrusion.

"Yes, I understand. I'm still getting acclimated to Nine myself," he offers.

There'd been a passive kind of resistance to their presence since they arrived, and he knows it from the uneasy silence that accompanies the uniform donned in public. It's a feeling that was foreign back in Two, of being watched like this.

But he simply notes the stony faces and long stares with a kind of haughty indifference. Nine's unwilling to embrace a change that had been done for their own good. Certainly, he wouldn't have chosen to come here if he had not pledged his service to Panem. He can't understand the hostility of the majority.

He pauses, observes Yan for a moment. The satisfaction spreads through him like honey, pleased with his agreement. It makes sense now, why he'd been so elusive, disappearing the moment he'd stepped off the stage. He isn't used to civility. Marcus smiles sympathetically.

"It must have been difficult before we arrived." With every word, he's inched nearer, closing the space between them again. He puts a hand over Yan's in one smooth motion, voice going serious for a moment, his expression becoming grim in a way that suggested being thoughtful. "I hope you haven't encountered too much trouble. The new peacekeepers are dedicated to protecting the district. If anything happens, please stop by the office and ask for me. I can get it sorted for you."

He says it without skipping a beat.

The longer he stays, the more confident he becomes. And the longer he watches Yan, the more fascinated he is. He's lovely, despite the circumstances, like a flower growing in a scrapyard.

The touch hangs for a moment longer before he lets his hand fall again. It's a chaste gesture, but the shadow behind his expression suggests anything but.

"I liked the show," he repeats, grinning, dimples on display.

He hadn't paid much attention to the plot. It's simple, a tragedy with a happy ending. The delicate, kind-hearted Xue Xiangling is saved in the end by her goodness. He had been more focused on Yan, the ornamental tones of his voice, his stately mournfulness, his beauty. He pretends to think of an answer that they both already know.

"Well, the production, the arias, it was all quite –" Marcus starts, voice softening as his eyes search the room and lands on the curve of Yan's outline. His shirt hangs loose and easy on his frame, the fabric so much thinner than the costumes he wore on stage that it feels almost improper. It's almost maddening how only buttons hold him together. He imagined meeting him several times, just like this. His mouth curves.

His eyes flicker back up. "Mesmerizing," he finishes, staring at Yan.

And then, another perfect line. "But you are unlike anyone I've seen before."

[calla]

► ► ►

His gaze is heavy, almost like a physical thing. It would be a cruel thing coming from someone who knew better. Yan feels his face tighten and does nothing against it.

"Oh, it wasn't so difficult," He's saying, sighing forlornly and laying it on much too thick. He's hanging his head and wringing his hands, acting the fool simply because he has the confidence to get away with it. He simpers through the motion, prepared for the sympathy it garners and opening his arms to embrace it. But then he goes rigid in the mirror, cutting himself off abruptly as Marcus reaches over to touch.

Yan looks at the connection of their hands again.

It's different, you see - being the one on this end.

He's used to the adoration, don't get that twisted. He thrives on it. He survives almost solely on the principle of praise. Infatuation is welcomed, and in fact encouraged, because he enjoys the headiness of it, he'll use it all up and then move on to the next idiot, kicking the day's last dead husk under the bed.

But these sort of things always come with constraints: only on stage, or only backstage, or only on Tuesdays and only when he wears white.

In a game like that, devotion with limitations is hardly devotion at all.

And so, this - Marcus looking at him like this, touching him like this, starry-eyed -

Yan's more inclined to slip from the touch like a drop of water slips down a pane. He likes the feeling of pulling away when it means the other will automatically follow. It's that feeling of being wanted. Remember that. It's a dog keeping slack on their own leash. And Yan likes to push at those ones the most. If he says jump, he doesn't want to hear how high, he just wants to see their feet leave the ground. He wants them to bark. He doesn't want them, but he does want them to want him totally.

Unequivocally.

He doesn't need to be loved, but he will be.

There's something funny about the way someone splutters when Yan looks their way, his head tilted to certain angle. He's a car crash, hurtling by and pulling people in and no one can look away from his inferno. There's something painfully entrancing to this act.

It doesn't work in reverse. It's not designed to.

And so he looks back at Marcus, letting his chin find the forty five degrees it requires to dazzle.

Marcus shouldn't forget that Yan is the one in charge here, even if it's only his subconscious that's aware of it. Sometimes that's the best part - the ones that think they're still in control, he likes those ones the most. The ones that are in denial about the fist Yan holds them in. It's always a treat to get them to admit it, it makes pulling teeth look like plucking flowers. The pull of the rug is his last and final trick, and his most extravagant one. There's blood, sometimes.

Yan is conductor and performer all in one. Marcus is simply someone who has wandered too far and caught the wrong eye.

Big, strong Marcus. Lieutenant. What string could Yan possibly twist to have him tripping? There's a cord there, something hidden away in an unused corner that his greedy hands are already reaching out for.

It's been a while since he's used this one. Couldn't hurt to try.

"Trouble." Yan tries, but it doesn't come out quite right so he clears his throat lightly and does it again. "Trouble. Of course. Yes."

Marcus keeps going.

"You're very kind." Is all he gets in response. Bashful. Distracted.

He's too busy formulating. Laying out a dish of floral soap and beckoning the fly forwards. A damsel in distress - who better to save her than the heroic Peacekeeper? Protect me, you gleaming idiot, don't you want to? Wouldn't you do anything?

Yan plays with his own vanity like he doesn't know it's there. He feels the hunger radiating off of Marcus and makes himself look at it blankly. Innocently. He hides the curve of his smile and steps just out of reach, pulling the leash. Let Marcus feel like he's the wolf for a moment, Yan is still the one with the knife.

It hardly even matters now, a funny little scenario's entered his head. Yan prods at the squeaky hinge of it, trying to smooth the sound out into something pleasant. Because the trouble is this - how delightful it would be to warn the Keepers that they’re being watched. Two birds with one stone; the hawk and the crane. Yan wonders what would happen first - Ulysses burning the theatre down or Ulysses burning himself. His hands closing around Yan's throat or his hands slapped in metal and dragged off.

It's a funny little thought. Yan can feel the heat of the fire if he tries hard enough, the same way he can feel the pressure against his windpipe when he looks at the starched shoulder in front of him.

His mouth trembles a little. He plays it off like he's about to cry, like he's just thought of something horrible.

He tries very hard not to let the laugh out.

"What if there was someone," He suggests quietly, slight shake apparent, "Someone pushy, who comes to the theatre even when I don't want them to. Demands things."

He reaches for a hesitation that almost becomes real and a trepidation that almost borders on genuine. Method acting.

"Is that the sort of trouble you could sort out?"

He drags a finger across the vanity, refusing to look up for this part because it requires a certain hush, a gentle subduedness that he must allow to be misconstrued as fear.

"But he might be dangerous." He says it like he's backtracking, shaking his head and turning away to hide the odd little gleam in his eye. He holds the leash taut, testing the give of a soldier's ego.

"I wouldn't want you getting hurt because of me."

[fox]

► ► ►

There is a bruised part of Marcus that likes being in Nine. With arrogant ease, he knows the reason why he doesn't belong here: he's better than this.

In Two, he had to work for it. Top of his class, best on the team. He lied and cheated and destroyed what he had to in order to carve out a name.

But in the end, it wasn't enough. Back at home, it felt as if he could set himself on fire to be the brightest thing in the sky, that he could burn the world to the ground with his fury – and nothing would ever change. The insignificance of his life would continue, as suffocating as before.

That ugly little part in him is more rotten than tender, spoiled by the fact that he is who he is. He clings onto the branch and stares at the brutal ground. He'd been languishing with a belly full of flies, watching his parents regret their marriage, watching them move on with their lives, alienated by his own existence. It's easier to believe that all along he was the one that had wanted to go.

And now Yan, so permissibly agreeable, lets him play the part.

The boy pulls away like a current, cool and liquid. And in reflex, Marcus follows the absence.

Marcus is the fool and Marcus is the prey, but Marcus is the killer, and both things are true. His nature is unchanged, no matter how oblivious he might be. As long as he feels like he has the upper hand, he's willing to play, eager to impress. It's the slipping, it's the fracturing of that grasp, a fragile, dimpled ego splattering on the concrete that turns him from boy to teeth. Richly terrible, unbelievably consuming. He could be so sweet. He could be even crueler if he wanted to.

There is a thin line between wanting and despising for someone like him. Yan, ever talented, walks a tightrope with languid ability. For now, Marcus wants him because he could have him. Or at least he thinks so.

He doesn't see past the performance, nor does he feel the perilous latent energy beneath each gesture like a waiting viper. Yan is Xue Xiangling for all he knows or cares to know, and the fact is he doesn't particularly care. And why would he look so hard for the unappealing truth when he's given everything he wants? He likes this, enchanted by those delicate mannerisms, the curves of his body softer than silk – someone beautiful to admire and to admire him in turn.

The idea of a person is enough.

"Hey –" Marcus is near him again, but this time a little more restrained, and doesn't reach for Yan's hand. Not yet. He notices the hesitation, the shuddering of breath, the slight tremble of his mouth, and it isn't the right moment. "What's wrong?"

He watches how his shoulders shake slightly with each word, as if it's some laborious task to speak, his body turning towards the vanity and into itself. An expression flickers briefly across Yan's face before he shakes his head, eyes downcast in the reflection of the gleaming mirror, and his tone is so plaintive that Marcus is worried he might cry.

The thought is horrifying, but then he thinks well, it might work in his favour.

"Is that the sort of trouble you could sort out?" The words are soft, his voice a little frail with uncertainty. Marcus realizes, belatedly, that Yan is asking him.

Oh yes. Lieutenant Spencer.

The lie stales in his mouth. There's a coppery aftertaste to it that he swallows with a smile, a single discordant breath before he finds his footing again. "That's what I'm here for," he answers, laughing lightly, although a bit stilted compared to earlier. "It is my duty."

It's fine. It doesn't matter. Not that he would expend an unreasonable amount of energy on an unknown actor from Nine, but Marcus is certain he's well equipped to deal with whatever rowdy patron that stumbled his way backstage to Yan. He can picture the type, oafish and blundering new money, suddenly wealthy from a windfall on an investment with none of the social graces he ought to have with it. Dangerous, he supposes, in the way that all idiots are.

He doesn't actually need to be a lieutenant for that.

This thought smooths over that sudden terrible pang of hesitation, and it makes him bold again. He shifts his position incrementally to stand by the vanity in a way so that Yan is facing him, and wears a earnest, gentle smile. "It's very kind of you to worry about me."

There in the light, his cheeks look warm, barely flushed, and Marcus thinks about cupping his face and tilting his chin up to meet his eyes. The absence of his gaze nettles at him, and he doesn't like the ill-defined feeling.

But instead, he places his hand on the tabletop where Yan's was a moment ago, leaning in casually, tone becoming serious again. "But I'm more concerned about you."

The uniform is brighter than armour and almost silver in the shadows, and Marcus wears it like it's gold.

"I'll come by more often," he says sympathetically, like it's an offer, but Marcus only states things in terms of what he wants to do. "To make sure you're safe and no one bothers you." The proximity sinks into his skin, and he moves again, intuitively to block the path, Yan pinned between him and the vanity. His stare drips like black honey for a moment, catching – "Oh. Don't move."

And very suddenly, he reaches up and brushes the top of Yan's hair, a feather touch in the briefest of moments, chord of a harp string vibrating in his chest. His gaze falls innocently back to his face, disposition totally guiltless. "Sorry," he follows up quickly, as if he's surprised by how close they've gotten, as if he hadn't realized at all. It might have been convincing if it wasn't for the fact that he made no inclination to move away.

Marcus opens his hands, and there's a blue thread between his fingers. "Something in your hair," he murmurs.

[calla]

► ► ►

The thing about performances like these, and particularly performances like Yan's, is that they become all-encompassing all too quickly. He upsets himself to believe he is upset. He doesn't so much as become the role, as the role becomes him. It's his own voice that trembles. It's his own hands that draw the gauze of the curtain down.

Marcus stumbles, and Yan is too occupied with perfecting the maudlin nature of his pout. It's evocative of grief-produced tears at the windowsill; palms laced in the moonlight; the crush of a violet petal between thumb and forefinger.

"It's very kind of you to worry about me." Marcus says. Yan smiles like a spider, soft as silk.

There's a little trill of victory starting up in his chest. Because, really, how easy - how ideal. Simple. He barely has to lift the finger that this oaf seems so eager to wrap himself around. He hasn't lost his touch, and the thought is snide, wrought with an overconfidence that settles over him like a shroud. He declares his win too easily, already marking the tally and wiping the chalk from his hands.

And why shouldn't he?

Lieutenant Spencer.

He can picture Ulysses' reaction quite clearly now.

"You shouldn't worry about me." Yan begins humbly, preparing for the star soliloquy. Woe is me. The light turns him translucent.

"I'll come by more often," Marcus says instead, in the middle of Yan's preparative inhale. "To make sure you're safe."

Annoyance flicks at him from the interruption. Only briefly.

"You really are-" He starts as he shifts, about to say something that could be misconstrued as flattering. He shuffles the recitation of his lines and moves to keep up their little game of chase.

But they step at the same time, an ill-timed manoeuvre of Yan going forward and Marcus going to the side, and Yan has to jerk backwards to stop the crash. It's perhaps an over exaggeration. The proximity simply startles him. It's unexpected; Marcus changes the steps so abruptly that it catches Yan off guard and he collides with the vanity in a single quick movement. The sudden screech-thud of it is too loud in the room, the legs skidding as it shifts the bare inch to bang against the wall. Yan just barely stops the wince, starts to feel the ache of the table edge press into his lower back.

"Don't move." Marcus is saying, and Yan can't help the way his glare leaks through at that.

He has gone still though, and when Marcus reaches out Yan goes impossibly statuesque. His breath stops. His shoulders rise infinitesimally as he burns a hole in the crisp blankness of Marcus' shoulder. The presence in the room is suddenly mammoth and an animal part of Yan's brain attempts to fight against it.

Blame it on the way Xue Xiangling still clings to him. It's just for the time it takes Marcus to pull away. Let him have this, it'll help in the end. It'll make things easier. Think of the string, and of an officer wrapped around a little finger. Yan can move out from it anytime he wants to, but the better hand is to wait it out until Marcus pulls back.

Except he doesn't really. Yan glances up at him and then immediately away.

The table edge is still pushing against him, or he's pushing against it. He makes a conscious move that doesn't seem very conscious at all - his hand fluttering up to brush at the cuff of Marcus' uniform, and then falling back down to the edge of the tabletop. It's a gesture delicately overwhelmed.

"Saving me already." He says reflectively, but it comes out a little too biting. It's a little too sharp around the edges. The contempt creeps out into the vowels, the scorn showing its face like a snake peeping out of its den.

The underbelly of it is this - Yan has always needed to be the one in control. He's the pursuer. The predator beast. Even when he smiles and dances away and doth protest too much, he is the one pulling the strings. He genuinely flinches from the reversal, and a terrible part of him goes on the offence.

He hadn't really expected Marcus to act so quickly on the lead Yan fed him. They so rarely do. The boy's domineering at once goes from playfully annoying to genuinely irritating. Yan puts his hand against Marcus's shoulder in an assuasive gesture, stopping him, but passing it off as a way to regain his balance. Weak in the knees maybe. That's what he'll play it as. He tries to assert himself again, tries to get back on track through steeling the flex of his fingers in a breadth of starched polyester.

He can feel Marcus staring at him, waiting for a more telling reaction. It burns a little, in a way that was different than before.

Yan, very suddenly, wants to smack him.

It's maybe a good thing, then, that the door opens so suddenly and Cao bursts into the empty frame looking like he's about to walk in on a crime scene. He's sweat so vigorously through his shirt that it's an entirely different colour now. 

He probably heard the sound of Yan knocking into the vanity; the muffled thud of something hitting the wall.

It only takes a second for his gaze to lock on them and at once, Yan feels a wash of embarrassment that doesn't actually belong to him. It's a stupid thing to feel. He couldn't care less what Daming thinks of him. But still, Marcus is very, very close, and Yan is pressed like a butterfly between him and the tabletop and the whole thing would be incriminating regardless of circumstance.

"Laoban." Yan greets tersely, but refuses to look at him.

He can't see his expression, but Yan can hear the tone in his voice. Whinging. Rankled. A tired sort of resignation hanging along the base of his syllables.

"We're getting ready to close. If M- Lieutenant Spencer would be so kind."

[fox]

► ► ►

The danger of Marcus is that he is ordinary. His grades in school, his occupation – all exceptional in a kind of uninteresting way. And being from a wealthy family in Two, entering the Peacekeeping Academy, undertone of haughtiness, the careless confidence – there are a thousand men just like him in the world. There is nothing particularly noteworthy.

But that's the thing about ordinary men. It's easier to spot a wolf that looks like a wolf.

The thread falls, but he stays. That sweet eagerness suddenly looks like greed, a shade of something more indistinct in the shadows of his face as he stares at the actor in front of him, tracing him from the soft throat to the cherry of his lips. Marcus can imagine sliding his hand around his waist so easily, pulling him in until there is nothing between them, not even a breath of air.

The light fractures over Yan, broken at the line of his jaw as he turns.

It stops him mid-thought. The motion shifts the focus a little, and he becomes aware of how the edge of the vanity digs into his back, how he refuses to meet his gaze – and how he'd looked at him in that fleeting moment of tangency, eyes flashing in the light. Not quite the expression of guilelessness he expected. It lingers in his face.

But then, he brushes softly against his sleeve, dithering and delicate, a breadth away from his wrist.

And Marcus takes it as an invitation.

Without any more hesitation, he places his hand on the curve of his back, drawing him away from the tabletop. He can feel the warmth of skin beneath the smooth silk, the slight tensing of muscle in response to his touch. Still looking at Yan, he lets his hand rest a few seconds longer, leaning in to speak in a whisper-soft voice.

"Be careful. Don't hurt yourself."

Yan will not look at him.

"Saving me already."

His voice is sharp with surprise. Then, he puts a hand on Marcus' shoulder to steady himself. The gesture could have been charming, but there's a layer in his expression that flickers again, as transient as the first time. It makes the silken parts of his face go more brittle, burning, different. Marcus doesn't withdraw, only holds him there and watches for an answer, studying him with an intensity that borders on something like hunger. He doesn't like the change in tone. For the first time, he gets an inkling that there's something else in Yan, and the feeling unearths a vicious desire he barely realizes.

As a child, he remembers being told not to touch butterflies because their colours could fade, because they could even die from it if he wasn't gentle enough. But the fragile flash of their beauty, their intricate paper wings – he'd crush them if he could have them, suffocated and flattened between the pages of a book.

Without the feigned care from before, his hand slides up slowly, along Yan's spine. Just one point of contact between them, but he stands there like he could crush him with it too.

The door bursts open.

The sound of he knob smacking against the wall echoes loudly.

Yan twists from him, and he turns too to stare at Cao.

In a rush, the air fills back in the room, hitting his lungs and he almost recoils. The troupe leader looks at the scene, his face crumpling with realization and Marcus feels like could hurt him so so badly. He looks very ugly in the doorway, sweating profusely like that, and it takes all of Marcus' will not to have his expression twist into a sneer. What a fucking pain. It had to be on purpose.

He doesn't feel anything like shame, more of annoyance actually. The moment is ruined.

Anger makes him curl his hand into a fist, pressed against Yan's back, but he lets it drop to his side.

Instead he soothes the irritation over with the thought that there would be another opportunity in the future. Fine, he can be patient. Doughy looking Cao, pathetic as a fish, can not stop him from returning. He can handle him. And if he can't – then he'll have to get rid of him quickly next time. It'll be more interesting anyway. He would've gotten bored fast if it was too easy.

Marcus straightens up. His face goes blank before he blinks and the pleasantness returns in the form of a small smile, his dimples appearing.

He has done nothing wrong.

He hasn't done anything at all except save the actor from bumping into the table when he stumbled over his feet. How clumsy of Yan, how chivalrous of Marcus.

"The room is too small for two people," he laughs. "Better watch where you're going or you'll injure yourself."

As he speaks, he's aware of the people out in the hall, milling about, glancing at the disturbance, and the charming courtesy flows from him as easily as it had before the door closed. "Yes, I better get going back. Thank you so much Mr. Cao for giving me a tour. What a splendid opera house." He grips Cao's hand tersely, trying not to let the disgust slip onto his face.

And then to Yan with a grin, friendly if not for the way he stares, "Mr. Li is incredibly talented. I hope to see him more often."

The silk shirt clings to him, lips parted and pink, eyes dark, and Marcus can almost forget the sudden tenseness, the uneasy feeling in his stomach from just a minute earlier. He is beautiful.

He'd been getting restless in Nine.

Here is his perfect distraction.

[calla]

► ► ►

A flip switches when he processes the audience. The whispering out in the hall reaches him first, then the steady high shrill of Cao boiling over, but really it's Aloys' giant smug forehead poking out from the corner of the door frame that finally does him in.

The tension doesn't leave, it just moves incrementally. The show must go on.

But like a shining lobster-boiled beacon, the look on Cao’s face is enough to focus the sensation entirely. The tension coming from him does something terrible to Yan. The tension coming from Marcus makes it even worse.

The press of his knuckles against Yan's spine feels red hot.

That’s why it feels so correct to put himself back in control. The distance cools him - what he went through mere moments ago was a singular, isolated lapse. It was a little hiccup, the smallest of stumbles; it won't happen again. And what an overreaction that stumble was - Yan likse to be looked at. Marcus obviously likes to look. There could be worse things.

Suddenly that's the most important thought. He wants this to end on a good note. He needs it to. He has no pull if his pull walks out disgruntled. He has nothing to lord over the others if he lets himself falter now. He needs this power waiting for his beck and call. He needs to worm himself so deeply into this man's subconscious that he can't think of himself without thinking of Yan.

So while Cao tries not to squeak in Marcus' grip, Yan physically gathers himself.

He reaches for that coyness again, that demure hand gripping the leash, and it arrives a little off-kiltered, just a touch sparse, but there's still enough there that he can grab it and pull it over himself. It's exhausting to do multiple times in one night. It makes that sense of self a little fainter and a little more distant, it becomes a little more intangible, but Yan is nothing if not committed.

From over Marcus' shoulder, he folds his hands and smiles at Cao so sweetly. The expression doesn't reach his eyes, but that hardly matters. It's there. That's enough. Cao's face immediately goes darker. He looks like he stopped breathing about four minutes ago and is just now facing the consequences.

He's going to be insufferable once Marcus leaves.

Yan sways back into view and swaps one face for another, pressing the powder back into the soft lines of his skin, fortifying this awful nature of his.

When Marcus turns back to him, Yan is untouchable again.

In a swift movement - like he’s working spur of the moment - his hand finds Marcus’ shoulder once more. That's good. That's familiar. He knows exactly where to fit his claws in already. Yan nudges him back by the solid line of his arm but doesn't pull, it's more of a suggestion than anything - the little ant trying to move the hill.

At least he's still handsome. The light hasn't changed yet.

Yan runs both palms down the front of Marcus' uniform before he can second guess it, brushing little imaginary bits of lint away like nothing ever went wrong. He tries to make it seem doting instead of mechanical.

“Thank you for coming.” He tells Marcus. And he may be too earnest with it this time, overcompensating with his acting.

Then he cranes up to deliberately brush his lips against the top of Marcus' cheek. It's so chaste, so light, that it's barely a touch. The brief hesitation makes it a display of bravery. First date jitters. And then he’s gone again, hiding behind the costume sleeve he doesn’t have, he’s turning away - shy.

He catches Cao in the gesture, sending that stilted sort of smugness across the room.

Daming’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, his soul seems to slip away from him a little more.

It's invigorating.

“Be safe.” Yan says, still bashfully turned away.

That confidence is slowly rushing back, the single trickle turning into a stream. It's a feverish sort of warmth, nestling in the vertebrae notches like sun spots.

“I’ll let you know if there’s any - “ he glances at Cao without moving his head, wicked with it, “ - trouble.”

[fox]

► ► ►

Swallowing a feeling of disgust, he lets go of the troupe leader's clammy hand and then not-so-subtly wipes his own off at the hem of his jacket while the man hems and haws about another tedious thing. It's not anything of consequence. His face has already slipped back into place before he's turned towards Yan for the genial conversations of goodbye, softened from the stiff smiles worn for Cao.

He didn't expect much. Not with Cao in the room with them, so stubbornly stuck like a nail bent in the damn wall, and not with the eyes beyond the door, peering at the spectacle of a Peacekeeper in their halls.

But then Yan is standing before him, and he's pressing his hands to his chest, still without meeting his gaze, smoothing out the pristine front of his uniform delicately.

Marcus grins in surprise, midway to saying something affable, a promise to return soon with his attention laid like a precious gift. He assumes its one last gesture of fine, understated fondness. But Yan leans in, closer than they've been before, and the words never surface.

He kisses his cheek.

It's impossibly light.

The world tilts towards it, and suddenly everyone else seems so damn boring compared to this. He forgets the past, as if it had never happened at all, forgets all the lovers and disasters, the blood speckled across his hands, crush after crush. Boring, boring, boring.

A clear, sharp knife of delight slices through him. He feels it burn in his chest.

Cao says something incomprehensible, but Marcus is barely listening anyway. The sound of his pulse rushes in his ears.

He's watching Yan.

His posture is curled like a flower, cheeks the colour of cherry petals, so so sweet, and all Marcus can think about is how he might unfurl him, how he'd take those hands and drag them back on his chest, tip the smooth edge of his chin, and taste him. He glows like the moon in the room, and in the silver light, Marcus can't see all the blood.

It was barely anything in the end, fleeting and brief. Ephemeral. He's turned away again, withdrawing from his grasp, gone from the touch.

But when Marcus leaves the room, he can't help but look over his shoulder.

♦

Mother,

How was your retreat? I hope you were able to relax even with the looming renovations taking place. Father seemed rather busy the last time we called. Horatius talked to me briefly on the phone, and he is getting so well spoken. Let father know I will be sending a gift for the triplets' birthday, as I am sad to miss it.

Training has been smooth as usual. I took the first history examination, which is notorious for trimming the fat, and I did exceptionally well. I personally enjoyed writing my paper on the southern front of the District Three Campaign after all the spare reading I did on commander Gough. Truly one of the most brilliant tacticians of the Capitol during his time. I've been scouring the library for more material about him, but it seems like I'll have to request for more books. Honestly, I could talk about this for ages, but I won't bore you with the knowledge.

Now with a fourth of the class gone, I do feel like the people remaining are much more serious about becoming officers, and the overall quality of students has improved remarkably. This, I am quite happy about.

As busy as I've been, I have been thinking of Two often these days. Sometimes I catch myself glancing in the direction of the mountains, but there are only buildings along the horizon here, blowing empty smoke towards the clouds. I know you did not want me to dedicate my life to the Peacekeeping cause, but I am happy to finally see the people's Panem, however much I do miss my home and the people with it.

While the weather warms, I am slowly settling into Nine. The sky has finally turned blue this week. Wild flowers swept through the cracks of the district, and it was like one morning I woke up and realized they were blooming. At least there are still beautiful things here too. I try to remind myself of this and look for them. Some of the new flowers are quite lovely despite the crumbling concrete they grow from.

As always mother, I hope to hear from you soon.

Yours,
Marcus.