It’s the moments like this – when his makeup is smeared and somehow, Jongdae’s eyes don’t look quite as sparkly – that Yixing realises that he loves him. Because Jongdae is not Chen; Jongdae is not catty comments that verge on being hurtful, if you read between the lines. Jongdae is that awkward laugh that he has to suppress when pouring tea for the customers who can only think about what’s between his legs; he’s the terrible dancer that Yixing cannot turn into a beautiful swan.

And he prefers him like this, because Chen has always been unattainably beautiful; the thick makeup they ply him with dulls the sharpness of his cheekbones, accentuates his mouth to make it look larger and plays upon the cat-like nature of both his eyes and smile. Jongdae is not a cat; he’s far too loyal to ever be such a fickle creature, and yet that’s the part Chen plays because the clients want to believe they can tame him.

But it is he who tames Yixing, deep in the middle of the night when his hair is off-centre and positively bedraggled, when Yixing’s eyes are huge in the darkness because black market ambrosia always lends a more dangerous high than that which can be attained legally. Yixing’s clients are not quite so highbrow as Jongdae’s – they play on the fact that he is a foreigner from Xing to legitimise their dirty fantasies. He’s exotic – yes, oh-so exotic – but he’s also a filthy foreigner and they like to make sure he knows that.

All the clever comments in the world won’t save him if they want to play – if they want to beat him until he bleeds, scratch at him until his back resembles some kind of sickening calligraphy and even Jongdae can’t coax his eyes open. Some days, he aches so much he doesn’t quite remember what it is to be alive.

But then Jongdae will sneak into his room, beautiful robes exchanged for something a little simpler – but no less attractive. And then, maybe – if he’s lucky – something will seem worthwhile for once.

At the very least, Jongdae is always something to hold onto when he can’t take it anymore.

***

Jongdae is always sold off quickly; it’s a constant, something that the ageya relies on to keep them going – Yixing might be popular among the right kind of crowd, but it’s Jongdae who brings in the real money. Yixing goes through several men per night – his body handed off to one man after another, until their self-satisfied faces all blur into one and everything is an ambrosia-laced haze. It doesn’t bother him, particularly, that Chen is the one they call for.

Because Chen is not Jongdae, and they will never have him – so what’s the point in being jealous?

They’re not high-ranked Zinnia; men do not hand over small fortunes for half a day with them. They spend a modest amount of money to be entertained by semi-attractive men for a couple of hours, and then they are on their way. Sometimes they come back – other times they don’t. Yixing is used to new faces, new bruises, new punishments for crimes he himself did not commit – but why worry, when ambrosia can numb that pain?

His treatment at the hand of strangers has only gotten worse over the past year or so; the war brought many problems, not least the population explosion that drove Yixing into the unwelcoming arms of Chousen’s Zinnia districts. But, to be honest – he never expected them to be kind. He’s not the sort of man to attract partners who are inclined to be gentle.

Except for Jongdae. But then Jongdae is the exception in all things.

So when they push him out to line up and look pretty, he does not fight to be the first, doesn’t complain that his hair is pulled too tight or that his kimono is too brightly coloured for his pale skin tone; instead he just sits quietly. Some might call him serene, but he’s learnt that if you look the other way, people tend to forget you’re there.

Of course, he’s a little too attractive to be completely forgotten – and that’s not arrogance talking, it’s simple fact. They don’t choose zinnia who won’t sell; men won’t pay to look at something they don’t find visually…stimulating. But he never attracts the kind of man who will talk – and really, that’s a good thing.

He is not Chen – sarcasm is not his lifeblood, witty remarks do not flow freely around men who chuckle obligingly. Chen knows he’s here to be admired; Lay sits there silently and lets your imagination do the work. He’s nothing but a pretty picture – a picture that someone will undoubtedly enjoy destroying, and then someone – most likely Jongdae – will have to coax the beauty out of him once more.

But as long as it gets him customers, who cares?

***

Chen is pouring tea for a customer when he hears the thud next door. The reasonable – nay, the expected – thing to do, would be to ignore the noise, smile pleasantly and act like nothing is happening.

But he can’t. Because that thud is all too familiar, all too loud and he can’t help his rising heartbeat. Yixing is in the room next door; it’s Yixing’s body that most likely made that noise and it’s his lover who is being beaten for nothing more than resembling the men on the wrong side of the war. His hand shakes, but he plasters on that smile for the customer.

“Must be an eager gentleman,” he murmurs, passing over the cup with all the grace he can muster. He can feel his heart thumping in his throat.

The customer laughs, but then he would – what does the senseless beating of a nameless zinnia mean to him?

Jongdae fixes the smile to his face, even as his heart aches.

***

It hurts. That’s all he can register, when the customer has left and his room is silent, save for the beating of his heart. It’s not an unmanageable pain – this establishment might not be high-class, but it’s not as if they’re jukeungot – it’s just something that makes him wince, makes it harder to move than it should.

But a kimono will hide all that; a neatly tied obi will make him respectable once more, and good makeup can hide a multitude of sins. Really, all he has to do is move and start the whole process of becoming Lay again. It’s just that right now, he can’t even conceive of being anything but Yixing, anything but broken.

There’s the almost inaudible click of the door opening; he would turn his head to see who dares to disturb him, but he’s afraid it might be mama-san, come to scream at him for not satisfying a customer sufficiently.

It is not mama-san; he knows that as soon as he hears the soft swishing of silk across the floor, the unimpressed sigh of a man who does not like what he sees. “You look like hell,” Jongdae tells him, one perfectly manicured hand reaching out to touch his face. Yixing can’t help but nuzzle into Jongdae’s hand.

He knows he looks like hell, but what can he say back to that? Instead, he tilts his head back, the barest of smiles on his face as Jongdae’s knuckles brush against sharp cheekbones. He doesn’t even have to open his eyes; he knows that the expression on the other man’s face will be one of consternation, a little sadness – and most likely, a tiny hint of guilt.

Jongdae likes to get angry about Yixing’s treatment, but he has no idea why; it’s only to be expected – men come to fulfil their desires, not to play pretty little games. Just because Jongdae is fortunate enough to entertain men who mostly want to fall at his feet, it does not mean Yixing is. And quite frankly, it’s better than starving on the streets.

“Why do you let them do it, Xing?” Jongdae whispers sadly, silk spilling in inelegant folds as he kneels beside the bed. He only hopes that Yixing didn’t take quite so much ambrosia tonight – it might dull the pain, but he pays for it in the morning; when he eyes the pouch at his waist, it doesn’t look quite so full as it did earlier this evening.

There’s the barest snort from the elder man, because it’s a stupid question and Jongdae knows it is. “Because they pay me to do it.” He answers honestly. What other reason is there?

Jongdae sighs, unable to disagree with such a logical truth – although he’d try, if he could. Jongdae might not be quite as witty as Chen, but he does have an answer for everything. “I have another customer.” He says reluctantly, thumb running across Yixing’s full, bruised lower lip. “Will you be okay?” It’s another silly question, but one he has to ask for his own peace of mind.

Yixing blows a breath out, his face still cradled in Jongdae’s hands. “I’ll be fine. The maid’ll be in to fix me up soon, and then I’ll be as good as I ever was. You’ll see.” It’s not a lie – but he sounds tired, and he knows that Jongdae’s eyes will be narrowing in suspicion – but it’s not as if he can stay, so why pretend he can? “Go.” He mutters.

The silk whispers against the floor once more, as Jongdae rises on unsteady feet. He bends over Yixing, looming in a vision of a prettily painted face and dark hair bound by combs and perfume. He looks beautiful, but he doesn’t need Yixing to tell him that. “I’ll be back,” he promises, the kiss on Yixing’s mouth fleeting enough to leave him wanting more.

He doesn’t say I love you, but then he doesn’t have to.

***

Jongdae has always been one to keep his promises. And he shouldn’t be surprised by that – he’s known Jongdae for too long now to be surprised by anything he does – but he always is. Because when it’s dark and closer to morning than night, and Jongdae sneaks in with less-than-perfect hair and smeared makeup, his throat closes with something akin to gratefulness. He’ll never admit it, but he needs these moments when it’s just him and Jongdae, as opposed to Lay and Chen.

He feels at home in Jongdae’s arms; he forgets that he’s in a country that hates his guts, doesn’t mind that men use him as a punching bag to get rid of their less-than-savoury desires. Because in that moment, it’s just them; it’s just Jongdae and the sweet smell of the lacquer they use on his hair.

They kiss in the dark; they have in the breaking of the dawn and they cling to one another when it becomes light. And that’s just how it is.

It’s how it will always be, if Yixing has his way.