They’re an interesting pair, Yifan and Zitao, for their appearances fall on opposite ends of the spectrum. With the exception of his well-concealed tattoo and modest ear piercings, Yifan is rather clean-cut, with dark hair and a preference for silk, his look has often been called classic.

Zitao, however, has only ever been called a punk. Each of his ears is adorned with piercings and cuffs—Yifan has counted enough times to know that Zitao has seven piercings on his left ear, and six on his right (the lopsided number is a result of poor healing on his helix), and on his left ear, the very first standard piercing boasts the matching black cuff that Yifan wears.  

Beyond that, Zitao has blond hair that’s beginning to age into a dusky brown, dark roots barely peeking out, and though he had grown out of his heavy eye makeup phase about a year earlier, tonight he’s lined his eyes generously with a dark, smoky shadow and eyeliner. Beneath his left eye are two star tattoos that Yifan has traced multiple times, and where Yifan prefers silk, Zitao prefers leather.

Yifan’s doubts in the night are confirmed as soon as he sees what Zitao is wearing—black jeans with risque slashes and tears across the thighs and calves, displaying what years as a martial artist will do to the body, and a rather fitted black long-sleeved shirt with a white HBA logo across the , his sleeves pushed up just as Yifan’s are, teasing the lithe build beneath the fabric.

Yifan locks his phone and slips it into his pocket, mouth watering.

“Oh no,” Yifan teases as he approaches Zitao, arms slipping around the younger boy’s waist and pulling him close. He looks at Zitao down the bridge of his nose, eyes already appearing drunk, even though they’re both clean and sober.

In stark contrast to his physical appearance, Zitao looks at Yifan with mockingly innocent eyes, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips.

“What?” He says, voice startling to anybody who has never heard it before. Zitao has a beautifully sweet voice, and Yifan has an inkling that Zitao deliberately speaks several tones softer than he naturally would, if only to make people lean in close to hear him.

It’s all apart of his charm, Yifan supposes. All apart of the reason Yifan fell in love with him.

“You are not wearing this,” Yifan hooks his fingers into Zitao’s belt loops and tugs those narrow hips forward until they’re pressing against his own, and Zitao hiccups at the proximity and smiles cheekily at Yifan.

“What, you don’t like it?” He teases, even though he’s well aware by the sparkle in his boyfriend’s eyes that Yifan absolutely adores the outfit.

Yifan leans down, breath warm, and presses a quick kiss to Zitao’s lips. “I hate it,” He unashamedly confesses. Zitao is brilliant, a perfect compliment to Yifan’s own appearance, and they’re both accustomed to the many looks that they receive on the streets, born from both envy and lust.

“In fact—” Yifan smiles at Zitao, his fingers dancing to the front of the dark jeans and teasing the button that keeps them secure. Closer, he leans to Zitao, until their lips are just barely brushing with each breath. “—I want to tear this off of you right now.”

Zitao’s eyes flutter shut, his breath catching harshly in his throat, a pallid whine simpering through his lips. Despite the aberration of his appearance, he is quite submissive when prompted, and Yifan’s breath is intoxication, sluggish to his mind and hyperactive when invading his senses.

He shouldn't provoke Yifan—he knows he shouldn't, because they have plans tonight, and , if Zitao doesn’t want to go out and tease the world—but oh, Yifan’s lips are on his neck, somewhat chapped, but gentle enough to send flames along Zitao’s belly, and it. it all.

“Fine,” Zitao breathes, tilting his head back, smiling softly at the tickle of Yifan’s breath, drunk off of the intensity of Yifan’s love, which has hardly even started to consume him.

“ me.”

lmao

my hand slipped