Page 48 of From Beijing, With Love

“Shagua more or less translates to stupid melon,” Yang said, his cheeks growing warm. The literal translation didn’t come close to encapsulating its meaning.

Daniel arched one brow. “Uh, should I be offended?”

“No,” Yang rushed to say. “It’s a term of endearment. Like calling someone silly, but in a … good way.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

“I can stop.”

“Don’t,” Daniel said, growing pink.

Yang smiled. “Shagua,” he said, lingering on each syllable. It wasn’t saccharine like baobei or qinaide—the Mandarin equivalent to baby and darling—and Yang liked that. Shagua was an affectionate tease, which summed up most of his interactions with Daniel.

“Is this what you call everybody?”

“By everybody, you mean …?” Yang asked, even though he had an inkling of what Daniel was asking.

“Have you dated other people?” Daniel asked.

Yang waited for the telltale signs of panic to seize him, like they always did when he thought about Shanqi. The acrid tang in his mouth, the tightness in his chest, the feeling of being sixteen again. But they didn’t come. There was something about being here with Daniel, in this hotel room that was a world of two, that made Yang want to tell him everything, however complicated.

He divided the remainder of the wine between them, watching as the last drop of crimson dripped into his glass. He took a long breath and a longer sip of wine.

“There was someone. My best friend in high school. We lived in the same apartment building. He loved playing basketball, and I loved watching him play basketball.” Yang let out a laugh, but it sounded hollow. He didn’t know how to tell their story, but he had to try. “I liked him, and not entirely platonically. I wasn’t going to act on it, but he didn’t make it easy by always being around. Then one day, it kind of just happened … I kissed him.”

Yang remembered that moment in the darkened staircase in pieces. The daring smile on Shanqi’s face as he leaned back against the wall. The graininess of the plaster wall against his palm as he braced himself. The surprising softness of Shanqi’s lips, despite being perpetually chapped in the Xi’an winter.

“Then I pretended it never happened,” Yang said, cringing at the stupidity of his teenage self.

“Did that work?” Daniel asked with a laugh.

“Not even a little bit, so I pretended that he didn’t exist, until … well, he made sure that I couldn’t ignore him anymore. He waited for me in the staircase of our apartment building and kissed me,” Yang said. If only he could stop the story there. But that wouldn’t be truthful. “We were together—secretly, of course—for seven months. Then came the summer break and he went to visit his grandparents in Hunan. It was supposed to be a two-week trip, but he never came back. I found out later that he transferred to a school there.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. We lost touch,” Yang said. It was easier than telling Daniel how Shanqi’s phone became disconnected after one too many unanswered calls. How Shanqi’s mother looked at him when he finally worked up the nerve to go upstairs and knock on their door—like Yang was the bad influence that had corrupted her son. “It’s what it is,” Yang said with a shrug, not meeting Daniel’s eyes. “Then later in university, I went out with a girl. It felt more like going with the flow than anything. Luckily, it fizzled out after a few dates. She’s a longtime friend and ended up in Tsinghua too. Anyway, I don’t think either one of those counts as dating, but that answers your question.”

“Did your family know?”

“Only about Meiwen, the girl. They were only too happy about it. My family’s complicated. They are not hateful people. They are just … traditional.” Yang shook his head. “I’m making it sound like they are backward. They really aren’t. My whole family is connected to academia in one way or another. My grandpa was a professor, so is my dad. I just know that they wouldn’t want me to—”

“But what is it that you want?” Daniel looked at him with unwavering hazel eyes, not unlike the way Shanqi looked at him a decade ago in that staircase. Except that with Shanqi, it was a dare, and with Daniel, it was a challenge.

A single word popped into Yang’s head then: you.

He wanted Daniel desperately, but didn’t know how he could have him without all the complicated emotions. Without getting hurt. Because Daniel was Daniel, with his big, worried eyes that were a dozen different hues commingled together like sunbursts and his brain that made him run in circles but also made him who he was.

He thought about Shanqi again, and how there was no guarantee of a tomorrow. He gave himself a choice.

Now or never.

Either he got up and walked away—and stayed away, because platonic wasn’t in his vocabulary when it came to Daniel—or he stayed and allowed himself to be here with Daniel, complications and all. He looked across the bed at Daniel: his creased white tee, his mussed brown hair, and his wine-stained lips that promised everything if Yang was brave enough to taste them.

And Yang was.

Crossing the bed, he took Daniel’s face in his hands, felt their sharp angles, and kissed him.

Daniel parted his lips, letting Yang kiss him deeper, harder. He sighed into Yang’s mouth like a weary traveler who was finally home.