Chapter 2: Hers to Keep

Yixing
Yixing loves everything about London. The sprawling parks, the crowded subways, the unforgiving weather, but his absolute favourite would have to be the city skyline; never tall enough to rival another metropolis. Those are some of the reasons why he decided to settle down here.

And then there's Angie. The only reason why he settled down in the first place.

The border collie pup is gnawing on her new toy. Punching holes after holes into the teddy's torso with her tiny canines. She plays rough with her toys but is nothing less than gentle around humans. Angie gives the teddy a break to look towards Yixing's direction, eyes like a pair of gleaming black pearls, too much scrutiny in them for Yixing's liking. She gives him a small bark of acknowledgement and she's back to teddy-slaughter. Why won't she her head cutely like those other puppies he stalks in Instagram, Yixing laments. Instead, she'll just bark softly when she caught him staring; and louder when he calls her 'pup' instead of her name. God, she hates it.

Yixing leaves her to her own device most of the time but when they do bond, it's over the entire Rolling Stones album, hence her name, and walks in the park that often ends up with her trying to befriend the standoffish pigeons. She's a dog after all, even if she's still in denial. Or maybe he's the one in denial, giving a dog way too many human characteristics to be deemed appropriate. Yixing picks up his camera and snaps a photo of Angie. That'll do for today he thought as he admires the image of the pup with her head threw back, two rows of milky white teeth exposed, her black coat shiny after this morning's brushing session, and poor teddy pinned firmly to the ground by her front paws. She'd been the subject of his photos for a couple times already. He tries to avoid repetitions but she's so precious and growing so fast. Yixing would eternalise every single moment with her into a film if he could.

The bare trees dotting the pavement to his workplace sways gently, like skeletons dancing to the rhythm of the wind. Yixing pulled his jacket tighter around himself as he recalls the first time he saw an actual human skeleton. It was during a class trip to the museum. While other kids were running around, bored out of their wits, Yixing felt a very peculiar sadness and shock inside of himself as he stared at the remains enclosed in glass. It wasn't a reaction to the bones themselves, but to what had once covered them; the strength, beauty, and complexity they had once supported. An entire world had once rested in that skull. How much love, pain, happiness and grief had that frame supported? Try as he might, Yixing could never comprehend.

The restaurant is already buzzing with preparation for the brunch crowd when Yixing pushes past the doors. They creak loudly, announcing his entrance. Madam Lim calls out a greeting in their native tongue from the cash register but most people paid him no mind, choosing to go about their tasks instead. It's a small space with too many tables and chairs crammed into it. The kitchen is chaotic as per usual with the chef barking out orders after orders, mostly out of habit instead of necessity. It's the same thing every day, they'll still function like a well-oiled machine minus all that noise; Madam Lim could have greeted him in English instead of Chinese; the regulars will still have a place even if they remove a few chairs, but it just won't be the same. Yixing hates to admit it but he's a little attached to this tiny restaurant nestled under all the hustle and bustle of Queensway, this feeling of familiarity and belonging. In one practised motion, he picks his apron off the hanger and ties a knot snugly on his behind before flipping the sign around to display 'open' instead.

Yixing peers out of the window that he is cleaning half-heartedly and sees a cyclist and his husky zooming by, both perfectly in sync; they almost knock over the agitated businessman who is on the phone, his polished shoe tapping against the pavement, probably berating some poor soul; a mother frowns disapprovingly at his choice of words as she covers her son's ears, hurrying the boy along. And in the midst of it all, a young man paces to and fro, pausing occasionally to check his expensive watch, his expensive phone or his reflection on the glossy windows of his very expensive car but the apprehensive look on his face never cease.

The commotion around Yixing is escalating and it will continue doing so until the first customer enters through those doors. It's expected for Old Xian to be their first on a Thursday morning. The old painter from Hong Kong is a regular who speaks English to whomever who's a willing listener, broken Mandarin to Yixing specifically and Cantonese when reminiscing about his hometown and the various lovers he had taken on. His contagious laughter makes getting out of bed more worth it for everyone in the restaurant and the fact that he tips Yixing much too handsomely for his brunch fix which consists of dim sum and pu erh tea because 'spoil the little one for me eh' he'd say makes Yixing's heart clench a little, if only his grandpa is half as delightful as Old Xian.

So imagine his shock when Yixing comes out of the washroom with beads of water trailing down his hands and a new pail of cleaning solution only to find that very young man from earlier, tailing behind Madam Lim towards the creaky stairs to the private room upstairs. His posture is perfect and he somehow manages to climb up those uneven stairs gracefully without losing his balance even though his hands are pressed tightly into his chest, as though he's afraid of brushing his light coloured jacket against the faded wallpaper. The frown on his face prominent as his eyes darts all over the place clinically. Scrutinising, judging and ultimately unimpressed. The soles of his shoes on the restaurant's parquet flooring are the only direct contact he has with his surrounding and even that proves to be too much for him. Yixing clicks his tongue and crosses his own arms too in distaste. Rich, privileged folks lavished in wealth and luxury and their first world problems. That's something he knows all too well. He basically grew up amidst them. Was raised and groomed to be like that young man, elegantly put together. So who would have thought that at twenty-six years of age, he'd have dirt under his fingernails from scrubbing cruddy windows whilst wearing a shirt that says 'Welcome to Wok and Hoak' in front and on the back, 'We do takeaways too' followed by a string of numbers.

Yixing can't help being a little defensive about the place he calls his second home and the people he had come to consider his extended family. He swallows the sour taste in his mouth and risks another glimpse at that infuriatingly beautiful creature, hoping he had misjudged him. It's too late, the young man has already taken the turn at the stairs and disappeared to the first floor of the restaurant. Yixing focus on cleaning the windows wholeheartedly this time. Immersing himself in the almost painful drag of the rough cloth against the palms of his han