a/n hi it's me, rice, your favorite liar

yes i said i wasnt gonna update this until i finished dress me but i felt it was unfair to not even show u the prologue before pausing the updates : ) 

i know i'm the worst, congrats

anyw here's the prologue and it's all u gettin!! ok bye!!

“Tao, do you believe in fate?”

Wiping the pricks of the needles at the tip of his gun with a vinyl-gloved hand and a microfiber cloth, he pops the tube free before removing the grip, and thereafter places both pieces into the autoclave. “Not really,” he mumbles out as he procures a fibrous hand towel to wipe the exposed liquid pigment and the beads of freshly-produced blood from his friend’s forearm. “I’m not really a fan of any of that whole true love, destiny, everything-happens-for-a-reason mumbo-jumbo propaganda. could happen any moment like someone could die in a car crash, or something, so what happens if fate said you were supposed to end up together? It’s all a bunch of lovelorn tenderhearted bull.”

As the soothing touch of topical cream swipes over his irritated skin, the man sighs and relaxes back into the headrest, nodding to himself. “So, what about second chances?”

An eyebrow cocking, his friend’s lips curl as he debates it for a moment. “Depends on the offense,” he says cockily. “You beat the out of your relationship partner? That doesn’t deserve a second chance, you deserve to rot in hell for that. You accidentally upset one of your friends because you made a joke about how ugly their shoes are and you didn’t think they’d actually be offended by it? That deserves a second chance. Why do you ask?”

“Just…” his friend begins to say, before his upper chest balloons and consecutively deflates with a sigh. “You know Sehun’s big brother, Jongin? He’s got this new girlfriend, I don’t remember her name off of the top of my head, but they have so much in common and you would think they would get along so well and be so head over heels for each other, you know? But Sehun told me that the other day, they had a fight and that she had tossed one of the new sweaters he had bought for her over her balcony and into a rainwater puddle from that morning. He’s really heartbroken right now, because he really believed that she was the one for him, and that fate had good things in store for the two of them.”

“Ah,” Zitao nods with an unimpressed expression as he takes hold of his friend’s wrist and lifts the appendage to wrap his afflicted skin up in a plastic wrap. “And this is why I don’t believe in any of that . See what happens? That in’ lies to you. Gets you all hyped up and wrapped around somebody’s little finger, but how do you even know what you believe to be fate has anything to do with what they believe to be fate? I don’t have the time for any of that.”

“I mean, you still could try to date somebody just to see if maybe you feel like they could be the one for you,” his friend smiles at him as he sits up on the bed and presses curiously on his tender skin from over top the smooth plastic wrapping. “‘Cause what happens if you have a soulmate, too, but you just don’t realize it because you don’t believe in that kind of thing?”

Then, his friend shrugs. “I’ll fall in love when I’m ready to. It’s my heart, I can dictate how I use it by myself.”

“But what if it sneaks up on you? What if you have your back turned, and then pah! it smacks you on the back of the head like a brick and suddenly you’re in love. What would you call that?”

“Spontaneous naivety,” Zitao smirks. “You owe me two hundred and fifty-five dollars, by the way. You know the drill, keep it clean and untouched and apply topical cream every time you find the area dry and accident-prone, and don’t scratch it. And in six months, I wanna see you for a color fill and then every twelve months after that for a line retouch.”

“Sheesh,” his friend hisses as he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet. “Can’t you give me a best friend discount at least?”

Tongue in his cheek, Zitao crosses his inked arms over his front. “Fine. One ninety-five, and you can pay up at the front desk with credit or debit. Make sure to tip Hyeri well, she runs the register and pierces people in the same breath, she deserves it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before,” Luhan grins as he shakes his friend’s hand. “Trust me, I’ll be sure to let her know if I decide I want anything.”

“She’s good at guiches,” the artist smirks snidely, boastful in his behavior. “I have one. They’re a fantastic feat to introduce during , every guy I’ve been with has loved it.”

He laughs. “Alright, too much info, Tao.”

He follows his friend to the register and casually slides an arm over the curve of the counter as Hyeri rings his friend up, simultaneously fawning over Zitao’s work as she does with each and every client as a sales mechanism to encourage them to return for more work. Although being a very experienced body modifier, much more experienced than Zitao himself, he has always associated Hyeri with being one of the absolute best entrepreneurs that he has ever met with her spectacular ability to kiss and manipulate the opinions of new clients.

His friend hands over his credit card for Hyeri to take and slide along the electronic pocket before handing the card back. “Would you mind if we siphon an automatic fifteen percent tip toward the artist?”

Courteous as he is, Luhan smiles and gives her a passive nod. “Make it thirty percent.”

Beside him, the boy’s lips make a soft smacking sound before he reaches out and slaps his friend on his untouched upper arm. “You cheap . Begged me for a in’ discount all just to give me a big tip. You could have given me no tip and just paid the full price.”

“Okay, but then I couldn’t have called it a tip and it would have made me seem like a selfish dickhead,” his friend laughs, and Zitao rolls his eyes as Hyeri goes through with the tip processing before quickly printing and tearing off his receipt before she hands it to him.

“We hope you come back to Celestial Chromism another time,” she smiles as Luhan tucks his card back into his wallet and folds up his receipt to slip it in his back pocket. “Thank you for letting us alter your skin. Have a great day.”

Zitao gives his friend a short, supportive hug before he leaves, and Zitao sighs as he is now two hundred and fifty dollars richer, and it reminds him why he loves being a body modification artist. “We need to rename this place,” he mumbles to Hyeri as he crosses his arms over the counter. “Sounds in’ silly. Maybe then we’d get more clients.”

Unconvinced, though, Hyeri merely clicks her tongue as she folds her arms. “You do realize that clients don’t give a what the parlor is called and that they come here for our work and not for the aesthetic, right?”

A snort. “Okay, well, a makeover wouldn’t hurt. Add some more color in here, some brighter lights, maybe some rad decorations. I guarantee you, them college-age teenage girls will be flockin’ in here like birds moving south for the winter.”

“And what follows in the shadows of college-age girls?” Hyeri asks with a smirk, her brightly-colored eye makeup sparkling under the halogen lights. “, testosterone-filled college-age boys. You know how often young men battle over ? They see a group of pretty girls coming into a parlor like this, I guarantee you we’d be making thousands of dollars comprised of phallic barbells and free-script phrases of meaningful encouragement. So, alright, I’ll entertain your idea. This weekend, I’ll come down and hire a crew to help revamp the shop - you in?”

He chews the idea up in his mind for an extended moment, admiring its viscosity and the integral texture of the weight it will have on their overall performance revenue. “Only if you’ll be supplying some liquor to make this worth my time.”

“I can’t believe you, Zitao,” Hyeri gasps as she raises a purple-nailed hand. “You really thought I would make you come to work on a non-business day and not hook you up with a bottle of Jack? How cruel you are. The next time you want me to pierce your undercarriage, I’ll make sure to mess it up.”

His eyes roll. “Alright, it up, Princess Sugar Plum. Don’t make me forget to put my needles in the autoclave and leave you with blood poisoning.”

Off to the side, the parlor door swings open and jingles the bell hung in the doorway, and they look over to see two men stride slowly into the parlor, as though completely new here, except for the fact that Zitao recognizes one of them as a regular client of Hyeri’s. “Afternoon, Chunji,” she smirks from her spot at the front counter, and Zitao watches as the men walk up to them, the one he doesn’t recognize much taller than his buddy, more broad-shouldered and more masculine, and his eyebrows begin to raise in piqued interest. “What would you like today?”

“Oh,” Chunji laughs nervously, a possum-cheeked young man with little silver balls in the dimples of his cheeks and faded hair that glows in a rosy tone beneath the lights. “I apologize for not making an appointment, but I came for my two months’ follow-up for my double rook, and I was wondering if I could also get a Kuno while I’m here today.”

“You should get a guiche one time,” Zitao comments flatly. “On the expensive side, but they’re a real hoot to introduce to people. Would recommend.”

The piercer rolls her eyes as she ignores his addition to a conversation he hadn’t even been part of as of thus far. “Of course you can,” Hyeri smirks and moves to make note of it on her desktop computer. “That’ll come up to around seventy-five dollars, not including other sets of body jewelry which, should you purchase any, will come at an additional cost. Is that alright?” And when the boy nods, excitedly and glossy-eyed, she smiles and steps from around the counter and waves him over. “Alright, come on back.”

Zitao watches as Hyeri takes the boy into the back room before she closes it off with a simple tug of a separation curtain before he sighs and turns back to the man that Chunji had arrived with, and blinks tiredly as the man gazes around the parlor in awe of the internal view. Zitao doesn’t think their parlor is that cute to look at. “What can I do for you today?” He asks, and the man’s gaze slides down from the glow of the lights to meet Zitao’s eyes, and the artist isn’t unused to the look of excitement and curiosity in new clients’ eyes as they put their trust in strangers to alter their body and then hope for the best out of it. Zitao is absolutely no stranger to shifty artists who improperly sanitize their equipment and have line art simply too mediocre for the astronomically high prices they charge. “If you want something pierced, you’ll have to wait for Hyeri to finish. I’m not licensed to pierce.”

Inexperienced and full of curiosity, the man’s eyes are big and soft and full of foreign interest. “No, I’m not here for a piercing. I would like a tattoo - on my lower arm. I brought with me a photo for reference.”

Zitao watches as the man reaches into his front jeans pocket which he can visually see is deeper than most jeans, and he knows firsthand how comfortable deeply-pocketed jeans can be, and it’s nice to actually have a client who shows up prepared and fully aware and ready for what they are getting themselves into. “Alright,” he says with a quick nod and reaches for the check-in clipboard. “Name?”

“Wu Yifan,” the man says, and Zitao’s eyebrow quirks as he scribbles the man’s name along the line in messy script.

“Wu Yifan,” he repeats to himself as he writes. “Nice name. You’re here for just a tattoo, right, Yifan? No body jewelry?”

“Nope, no body jewelry,” the Yifan guy smiles, his rosy lips spreading to expose a neat, white smile that rounds out his cheeks and puffs out his jowls, and Zitao finds it just a little bit cute.

“You ever get a tattoo before?” Zitao asks as he waves the man over and pats the seat of the padded chair for the man to sink into before he seats himself on his stool and begins to procure himself a handful of pigment cups and a couple of sterilized liner and shader tubes.

“Seven,” the man smiles, and the artist’s eyebrows raise. “From other parlors, though. Chunji had recommended this one to me and said that you guys do pretty decent tattoo work here.”

Zitao snorts. “Well, not to toot my own horn, but I’ve never had a client come once and never return for more. Huang Zitao,” he introduces himself as he extends a hand for the man to shake, and the palm he receives against his own is broad and warm even through the vinyl glove, and Zitao finds himself not really wanting to let go, but that would be unprofessional behavior. “So, seeing as you have experience in receiving tattoos, I’m under the impression that you very well understand that our prices are not cheap when accounting for the excellence of the work that we do, right?”

The man nods, “I brought my credit card.”

“Alright,” Zitao confirms with a nod. “Can I see what you’ve brought to show me?” Complying, Yifan lifts his hips from the seat to slide the folded piece of paper from his back pocket once more and hands it to the artist to take, and Zitao notes that the paper is oddly warm from being nestled against Yifan’s buttcheek this whole time, and he wonders distantly just how much bodily heat his retains. Exhaling a sigh, he unfolds the paper and rakes his eyes over the printed-out picture that the man had found and likely printed from home. “A tiger,” he mumbles mainly to himself but he knows that Yifan can likely hear him in the silence that fills the parlor. “You want it shaded and all that, too?”

“Yep,” Yifan nods, and Zitao reaches for his gun.

“Any color added?” He asks as he scoots his wheeled stool backward and peers through the rows of pigment bottles as he snatches a black one and a medium gray from the middle shelf, designated for shading only. “Any reds, yellows, maybe some blues?”

The man’s lips puff out just a little bit as though debating it, before he says, “No thank you, just shading will be fine. Right here,” he points to the upper section of his inner forearm, and Zitao makes a mental note of the placement.

“Good spot. Meaty, so there won’t be a lot of pain,” he comments and uncaps the pigment bottles to squirt just a little bit into his pigment cups. “Alright, Yifan, you probably know the drill. I’m gonna get you wiped up here so if you could just roll up your shirt sleeve for me - yep, right there is perfect - and it’s gonna feel weird when the needle drags. Might feel like a sunburn, might feel like a lot of pricking, or it might not hurt at all.”

Then, Yifan grins in a contented little line, and Zitao finds himself unable to look away. “It won’t hurt as long as I get to look at you while you’re sticking me.”

Distracted, Zitao’s thumb accidentally slides against the trigger and the needles buzz against the bottom of the pigment cup, and he curses out loud as specks of black flit onto his exposed arm over the rim of his glove.

Wu Yifan. What a nice name.

“I only joined the parlor about two years ago, but I’ve been tattooing since I was fresh outta high school at eighteen,” Zitao explains flatly as he raises his latte to his lips and takes a frothy sip. “Started off in a mall kiosk, and Hyeri passed me one day and said hey, kid, you lookin’ for a permanent office? and I had no idea what she was talking about, but she took me in and taught me some things and helped me adjust my techniques.”

“Wow,” Yifan smiles. “So you’re… twenty? Twenty-one?”

“Twenty-one,” the artist tells him with a nod. “What do you do? You some big-wig, or a lawyer, or something?”

The man smiles at him and lets out a small hum in place of a laugh. “Actually, I’m a kindergarten teacher,” he tells him with a grin. “I love educating the very early generation to be better and smarter people, you know? I’ve always genuinely enjoyed children, and I hope to have some of my own one day, whether through conception or adoption. What about you?”

“I in’ hate kids,” Zitao mumbles, and the man laughs at him and shakes his head. “That’s why I work in a parlor now rather than the mall because there’s nothing more annoying than screaming kids.”

“Well,” Yifan chuckles. “Have you ever heard that whole thing that’s like, it’s understandable to hate poorly-raised kids but you often love well-raised kids? Because, you know, children are carbon-copies of those who raise them, so if children are nasty and irritating, it’s because their parents are nasty and irritating.”

“Doesn’t mean I want any,” the artist shrugs. “Anyway, what do you like to do for fun, Yifan? You know, other than getting tattoos and being all smiley and teaching little kids the alphabet.”

The man takes a sip of his coffee, the sound soft among the background chatter’s din in the small shop. “I enjoy sleeping,” Yifan jokes, and Zitao’s expression goes flat which makes the man laugh. “Let’s see, I like cooking, gardening - oh, I really like birdwatching. I also enjoy reading, especially long novels. Just focuses my mind and helps me escape the world, you know?”

Somewhat impressed, Zitao feels his guarded expression slackening as he sets his drink down. He’s not sure why he hadn’t expected such a kind and debonair gentleman to be the owner of eight tattoos and to have friends who regularly get their foreskins pierced. He would have expected to see somebody like Yifan huddled away into their own lonely little corner at the edge of a library, in a thick-swatch beige sweater and jeans and dirtied sneakers, whereas the Yifan in front of him now is talkative, personable, and very good-looking in a button-up blouse and a suit jacket with the peek of suspenders hidden just beneath the lapels, and while Zitao has never found himself attracted to a man in old-timey attire, he definitely is not the type to turn one down.

“I love reading,” Zitao admits softly, and something in the man’s eyes twinkles. “One of my favorite books of all time is A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs. It’s a big sappy love story, I know, go on, get your giggles out now. Who would have thought a big scary body modification artist like myself with tattoos on my arms and back would read romance novels?”

“Me,” the man quips quickly. “People are much more than their external appearances let on, whether big and scary or soft and approachable. I could have been a royal dickhead who’s wanted for first-degree murder, and you wouldn’t have even known that. I promise, I’m not,” he laughs and holds up a hand, and Zitao’s cheeks flush. “One of the things that I always wanted to have was a grandiose house, big and full of rooms upon rooms and I want it to have a library on one of the floors, even if it’s as small as a study, the walls absolutely lined with novels of every kind from fantasy to science fiction to adventure to supernatural. I wanted my children to be as scholastic as I could possibly make them, and I hope that if I have any of my own one day, that they grow to appreciate written material the same way that I do.”

As the words sink in, Zitao finds himself speechless. This guy really planned out every single aspect of his future when in regards to achieving his personal goals, hasn’t he? “Jeez,” he finds himself saying as he quirks an awkward laugh. “You already have plans for raising kids and you haven’t even told me your age yet.”

Yifan laughs this time, his heart open and his lips parted. “Twenty-eight, but I feel thirty-five all the time. I’m getting old. I might have to quit my gardening and birdwatching soon before my hips give out. Now I want to ask you a question, young one. What got you into tattooing?”

It’s not a hard question to answer, especially when it’s one of the most commonly-asked questions when he meets new people. “Always wanted a tattoo,” he shrugs. “Got one when I was sixteen, ‘cause you can get one that young with parental consent. This one,” he says as he pulls on the collar of his shirt to expose a little line of black along the thick just below his right collarbone. It’s a very personal tattoo to himself, so he doesn’t show it to Yifan for long or even explain it before he covers it right back up. “And, of course, I used to be really into art when I was in school, so I decided after getting my first tattoo, that I wanted to be a tattoo artist, and I started training at seventeen so I could then become licensed at eighteen.”

“Wow,” Yifan smiles with bright eyes, impressed. “You’re very talented for so young, I was shocked how good of a job you did on my arm the other day.”

He’s a strange fellow - plenty intriguing and there’s no argument against attractive, but strange. Although he is generally one to dislike the accompaniment of others, Zitao finds himself wanting to know more. “Well, I’ve got a question to ask you, Old Man,” Zitao settles back into his seat with a smirk, his ink peeking out from the short sleeves of his shirt. “Before you fall and break a hip and it’s too late, what do you say to a tour of your old man house? You can call it a date if you want, but I’m intrigued to see what kind of books you keep in your personal collection. I wouldn’t mind coming over one time to read some.”

He honestly half-expects to be turned down for how blunt the request had been, but the teacher merely smiles at him and gives him a half-hearted shrug as his cheeks gleam beneath the shop’s lights. “I wouldn’t mind,” he grins, “but you’re only allowed in my house on one condition - that I can call you my boyfriend, and you likewise.”

Zitao’s eyes widen, this time, at just how blunt he is being. He wouldn’t dare call it something silly like fate, but they do seem to be a match made in heaven in the holiest of hearts. “Alright,” he smirks, already prepared to consider himself in a relationship and no longer single but disinterested. “You’ve got yourself a boyfriend, then, Old Man.”

Zitao discovers that Yifan lives at Albatross Drive and that his house number is seven thirty-two, all the way down and on the right-hand curve. It’s a medium-sized townhouse, cream-white with chocolate t and white-rimmed windows - a pretty little thing, it is, for Zitao has never been one to make or break a person by their belongings nor their salary.

“Sorry that it’s nothing spectacular,” Yifan gives him a bashful smile as they step through his front door and he instinctively removes his suit jacket to hang it up on the door-side coat rack, and Zitao is rewarded with the sight of long legs in sleek trousers held up by dark brown suspenders over a crisp white blouse, and it’s every bit as handsome when doubled with the man’s dark hair that Zitao had been anticipating it to be. Suddenly a little bit smitten, Zitao finds it hard to keep his eyes away. “I was approved for a three-fifty mortgage, and I kind of live alone, and teaching doesn’t give you an amazing salary or anything, so…”

“No,” Zitao interrupts as he lets himself in and gazes around the exquisitely-kept townhouse, his own rugged appearance stark in contrast to the cherry-oak and the cream-colored rugs that sit atop glossy wooden floors, as though freshly-polished, and Zitao is awed at how someone who lives alone can keep a house so tidy and meticulously clean. “It’s beautiful,” he admits, and Yifan walks by him to introduce him to his living room, coupled with cream-colored leather couches, heavily bleached and toned to reach that shade and glazed to give them a comfortable sheen. His furniture is all in the same shade of oak that matches the circular stairwell to the upstairs and the chocolate tone of the roof and the outside shutters.

“Thank you,” Yifan admits with a kind grin. “I actually moved here because I - I don’t know, I just felt this town calling me for some reason, you know? I know, it’s weird. It’s like I was meant to move here and maybe I was meant to settle down here and build a family here like I’ve always wanted. And perhaps, that means that I was meant to meet you.”

Zitao jitters as he’s being spoken to, his countenance wordless and his cheeks rosy and pink. “Shut up,” he blurts out before it sinks in what he’s done and he reaches up to cover his mouth; how could he be so rude in the hospitality of another person’s home? “Sorry,” he states quickly, “I didn’t mean that.”

His host only laughs as he brushes the command aside passively. “It’s alright. Fate can be a little intimidating sometimes, can’t it?”

In the welcoming arms of his partner’s home, Zitao feels his stomach twist at the mention of that word that he dislikes the use of so strongly. There’s no way he would call he and Yifan becoming an item fate - it was simply Zitao letting someone in and choosing to take the responsibility of having to permanently entertain them now. “I don’t believe in that ,” he mumbles, his nose scrunching. “‘Cause what happens if you’d completely skimmed over the town and moved elsewhere? Wouldn’t be fate anymore, now, would it?”

He understands all too well that he has a plenty-abrasive personality and that it takes real talent to see through it and know that Zitao isn’t actually a roiling dickhead, but when people base their life choices off of things like fate and destiny and soulmates, it’s laughable, really, how gullible those people can be. Yifan, however, proves to be actually quite the articulate man who falls loyal to his words, as he offers the boy a little grin in the comfort of his own home and says, “That is true, but fate works in very mysterious ways - did you know that? Oftentimes this entity that we call our fate, or our destiny, cooperates with the simple mistakes that we, as imperfect humans, make. So, it’s believed that if one were to make a mistake that would alter their fate forever, they might actually be gifted a second chance in order to fix it so that their fate stays on its appropriate track, depending on the severity of their mistake. Things like - ”

“Cheating,” he interrupts softly, wrapped in his own thoughts with unfocused eyes, “and physical abuse. Things that… aren’t mistakes.”

“Exactly,” Yifan speaks softly as he rests his hands comfortably on the breadth of the back of his living room couch. “Things that are not mistakes, but are merely the lack of control of the temptation inside of you. That is why we, as members of a society, follow the guidelines of the seven deadly sins. Nobody holds us at gunpoint and says if you don’t tell gluttony to right off, I’m going to shoot you. We, as people, are simply self-obligated to follow a set of guidelines on how to be good because we are intimidated by what lurks beneath our surfaces.”

Cryptic, subliminal words are not some that he has experience with from such an ordinary man with side-parted hair and straight-lined suspenders, as though someone far too wise to par with the youth. “Are you a philosopher?” Zitao asks with perplexity. “You’re always so… strategic and old-timey.”

“If that’s what you would like to call it,” the man gives him a kind little smile. “It’s a little weird, I understand, but now it might be a little clearer as to why I chose to become a teacher. I watch the world - I watch people, I watch how they interact, and how they crumble with despair after making mistakes. That’s how I know so much about people and the correlating intertwining of their fated strings. And that is why I, as you can clearly tell, do not judge people based on their outward appearances and why I myself, am the owner of eight tattoos beneath this professional attire. Neat how that works, huh?”

He supposes he could laugh - he could click his little tongue in a passive manner because Yifan is surely blowing smoke up his own because it’s no longer the nineteenth century and Zitao doesn’t think he’s seen too many men wearing suspenders in this day and age, but he supposes he can’t judge Yifan’s fashion sense when his own consists of striped sweaters and torn jeans. “No wonder you’re an Old Man,” he comments snidely. “You talk like one, too.”

“Alright, you got me,” Yifan laughs as he beckons him closer, patting the sofa cushion beside him for him to sit down on, and Zitao thinks they might be moving a little bit fast, already cuddling on the couch and just having met days ago. “My sister tells me all the time that I should have been a college professor rather than a kindergarten teacher because I’m so philosophical. She says college students would actually be able to relate to me more than five-year-olds would, but she fails to realize that I do have the capabilities of simplifying my speech for the underdeveloped minds.”

“You have a sister?” He finds himself asking, as Yifan wraps a long arm around him without pulling him closer, merely giving him personal space along with the gradual warm of his palm on his back.

“I do, a step-sister,” Yifan nods. “She’s a marriage counselor and a cartomancer. You should meet her sometime - I’m sure she would love you.”

It’s a little awkward stepping so briskly into such close physical contact, but Zitao doesn’t find himself necessarily uncomfortable. After all, one-night stands do help to squash intimacy anxiety. “Maybe I can get her a discount on piercings if she ever wants one. Hyeri is great at Christina piercings.”

“What else did you say she was great at?” The man asks softly as he looks down at him, his fingers trailing along the back of the artist’s hair. “Guiches?”

“Oh,” he snickers softly. “Yeah, I have one. Had Hyeri do it for me back when I was nineteen.”

The man’s tapered eyebrows raise as though impressed before he lets out a soft little laugh that makes his shoulders bounce. “Oh, did you? You were quite the little rebel, weren’t you, Zitao?”

“Like I said,” he smirks. “It’s a real showstopper in bed. I should tell you now, Yifan - a lot of men consider me dirty because I enjoy and I don’t normally search for attachment afterward, so consider yourself special but also be warned - I’ll probably taint you with my filth. I’m - so I’ve heard - a tough one to love.”

Classical and experienced, Yifan is a man who proves to be more intelligent than he lets on, extending further than just knowing how to express himself to persons of different breeds, and it’s quite soothing when Zitao’s self-deprecation is met with indifference, as Yifan gazes down at him and leans in to press a soft little peck to the boy’s curved lips, and it’s then that Zitao feels wholly reborn into something he’d never experienced before. “That’s quite alright,” the teacher tells him in a gentle tone, as Zitao’s lips buzz with the aftermath of the delicate sensation. “Behind every rough exterior is a kind heart and an even softer soul, and whether considered filthy or pristine, each soul can be cleaned and polished until it shines with the proper care.”

That day, Zitao finds his heart bleating sporadically through every kiss.

“Good afternoon, and welcome to Celestial Chromism,” Zitao comments as the parlor door swings open and the bell tinkles above the loft, and his partner steps into the parlor in an attractive sweater-blazer duo with a scarf around his neck and a lady trailing in his footsteps, exactly as old-timey as he with a lace parasol in her possession and crisp white gloves that cover her dainty hands. “What can I do for you today?”

He watches in silence as Yifan takes a half-step to the side before extending a hand toward the lady, as though to introduce her to a crowd, and she smiles as she steps forward to exten