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Sitting there, next to him as the imaginary battle waged in the sky, his mind thought back to the morning he’d woken up to find Xiang just gone. They usually at least left something obviously out of place, or maybe even a ‘be back later’ note if they were feeling generous, but it became clear by the end of the day, the other man wasn’t coming back. For someone who lived his life leaning over the edge of a cliff, daring the wind to send him flying, that night? He sat down for the first time in his memory. It was like the rough edges were an open wound, and now, just in front of him him, they were sewn together again. 

Sure, he could call the rest of the crew, do something daring, but his heart didn’t feel in it at first. As the days stretched into weeks, then to months, it became exceedingly clear to Xander that his heart wasn’t in it because it had left in Xiang’s hands. There was only so much he could do to combat the listlessness that had started to set in shortly after, and it made him angry. Angry at Xiang for leaving, angry at himself for being the cause, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to catch that version of him that had seemed so much better with the other man there. 

“Fuck Ted. Besides, only part worth watching’s the finale,” he said with a smirk. Life is rushing back into his veins, the thrill of the hunt, the chase, had sustained him for a while as he knew the outcome would be finding him again, starting that battle and reinvigorating the very grass they sat on, the air they breathed. It was easy, now, with him there, to let that anger melt away, because loathe though he had been to admit it for so long…he needed him. It was a little frustrating, to need someone after all this time being on his own, avoiding deep connections…but the puzzle pieces of their souls fit together like they were made to be one, and he couldn’t deny that.

It’s interesting how small he seems now, knees to his chest, curled up in a ball. Like he’s not a powerhouse, a lethal, terrifying person in his own right, one that could frighten death away with just the right look. Xander wondered what he’d been doing this whole time, Xiang, where he’d been. That was a question for a different time, though. Now was not the time for a lot of words. It was enough to just be with him again, to watch the explosions and feel the pull of the danger again. The anger was replaced by hunger, and the only thing stopping him from jumping Xiang right now was public decency laws. For all the shit he’d pulled, he wasn’t going to prison for fucking in public. 

He shook his head, “You left. Figured it was a good reason,” a shrug, “let you have your time.” Til I couldn’t take it anymore, he doesn’t say. He notices just how worn down, how nearly broken the man’s voice sounds, and it’s a monumental effort not to come up to him right there and wrap himself around him, hold him close and hope that that contact would heal the cracked parts of his exterior. 

Then Xiang speaks and it hits him, those three words. Three different words, but the relief comes rushing back to him. There’d been a sneaking suspicion. What if he’d left because he didn’t want to be there anymore, with him? He thought it was bullshit, but there was always that shred of doubt. Those words erase them and he can breathe now, too. When the space is made, Xander scoots up, and their biceps are nearly touching, but though the air is electrified, he does not move, to touch him, not just yet. 

Their eyes meet, a question posed, and Xander smiles, warm. It’s a loaded question, one he struggles to find an answer for. How could he respond that wouldn’t end in a fight and another separation? Everything clicks into place and he feels himself moving in front of Xiang, pushing him down on the grass, holding him there as he straddled him. 

Lips touch lips and he is electrified, he doesn’t care about the cacophony going on above their heads, about the people that can see them if they choose to look, he kisses him and unloads the months of longing he’d been holding onto, and as the last of the explosions die down, he pulls away, looking deep into those obsidian eyes. 

“I love you.”

Only Xander. How desperately he wants to laugh, to shake his head and leave, but he’s tired. Running alone with no thrill, no hunt, nothing to distract him save for the need to escape -- it means long nights perched high on rooftops chasing away sleep with the threat of death. Just to feel alive, to feel something, as he sorted his thoughts meticulously. All it takes is a few words from Xander and that drumming ache, the hole he’d been trying to fill in his chest, it eases slowly. They talk, simple words, simple movement, but he feels winded like he’s been caught after a long run. The wound is no longer bleeding and he smiles, laughing under his breath.

They sit shoulder to shoulder and Xiang feels calm after months of chaos.

What an asshole, he muses, feeling how Xander holds himself apart from him as if tentative in touching him. It doesn’t pass his mind that his presence may be thought as fleeting. Maybe Xander is concerned this is some dream and he some revenant come to haunt him. The thought is amusing, it makes him settle into the easy rhythm of the words that he doesn’t realize they’ve stopped until Xander is coaxing him onto his back.

Run.

Old instincts scream, whimpering as calloused hands move along his chest, urging him to lay back on the grass.

Xiang swallows hard, brows knitting together as a question rises up on his tongue only to die when Xander’s thighs frame his hips. Until now, it’d been a fight to claim dominance, a struggle. It’s odd seeing Xander offer up something vulnerable and soft that could be so easily hurt. So odd in fact, for a moment Xiang has no idea what to do but look at him, wondering not for the first time what was on the other man’s mind.

Lips press against his own and any fight that remained slowly bleeds out with an uneven sigh lost in the heat of Xander’s mouth. He’s no idea how starved for touch, for something as simple as kissing, until he has it once more slow and steady. Reluctant fingers set to work, running along Xander’s clothed spine, twisting into fabric to drag him closer. The kiss is warm, hungry, and coaxes him awake after feeling asleep for so long.

Brows knit together, that old pain arising once more and he wants nothing more than to chase Xander’s mouth with his own when he draws back. Instead Xiang lays there, looking up at a man wreathed in dying cascades of light, the embers floating lazy and slow in the air.

I love you, Xander says.

Maybe this was that moment, the finale they’d talked about not being worth missing. The one where two months pass and nothing has changed beyond the hunger intensifying. Is it anger welling up? Shock? Something else entirely? Xiang is moving before he realizes, breathing out words in his native tongue before he can stop.

Oh he swears at him, cursing him, calling him a moron, all while pushing and shoving until he has Xander on the grass underneath him with those thighs framing his body. Whatever it is he’s feeling, there is no name for it, none he has a word for, but he does grab Xander by the front of his shirt. The world is a perverse mix of redneck and suburbia hell around them but Xiang is busy kissing Xander the way he fights -- hard, ruthless, hungry.

Stopping means catching his breath, leaning forehead to forehead and gripping Xander’s shirt so tightly his knuckles are white.

Xiang had crashed into his life in a way that did more damage than any of the other ridiculous stunts he’d pulled–even the ones that had almost killed him. This was different, though, because for once, Xander thought that perhaps he’d found his equal. Sure, women could come close, but no matter how deadly, how crazy and bold, he hadn’t realized there was anything missing until that stairwell in Detroit. That stupid agent who thought it would be as easy as shooting fish in a barrel to take down the original triple X and one of the newest–and best–recruits. And then it had been a series of different crashes; flesh against flesh, muscles bruised and battered from the impact of a fight that wasn’t about winning, but about surviving. About being able to keep his head above the water and not drown in these powerful emotions. 

And then he’d said those three words and turned X’s world upside down. He didn’t know what to do, how to talk to him, there was this rage burbling behind those dark eyes, a hurt, maybe? He was good at reading people, but Xiang was different, he wasn’t just anybody, and he could keep secrets better than anyone he’d ever met before. Just as Xander was struggling to grasp this whole concept, to accept himself that there wasn’t a world worth living in if he wasn’t with Xiang, the man had vanished. 

He was alone, but he got it. Sort of.

Xander needed his own time to figure out what the fuck this even meant for him, and why he’d gotten scared, actually scared, when Xiang had said he loved him, why he couldn’t say it back. Three words, three syllables, eight letters, and they were all more perilous than free-climbing the Empire State Building during a hurricane. 

So he’d given him time, but the lack of Xiang near him started to take it’s toll. He felt it in the way his hands shook at night when he was alone, at the sudden burst of memories that hit him so hard he almost buckled every time he smelled tequila. He had to find him, so he started to look. Carefully, slowly. Ainsley was his last resort, didn’t want to involve her unless he had to, and he did. 

The fireworks everywhere was good cover, and he could see that raven hair further down on the green, shimmering with the reflection of the lights in the sky. He was hiding behind a literal goddamn tree like a fucking creeper because in the back of his mind, he knew–he knew–Xiang had run with the intention of not being found, with the intention to come back when–and if–he was ready. But it wasn’t up to him anymore, because Xander was suffering, and he knew he couldn’t be the only one. 

It takes a mental slap to get his feet moving, boots flattening the grass as he closes the distance between them, and he sits down, just behind him, upwind, as the finale starts and the green gets almost as bright as midday. Texans sure loved their fireworks. 

“Happy 4th of July.”

It’s simple as breathing, falling back into place as if there had been no passing of time between them. Xiang knows Xander is there, god help him he can smell him above the stale tang of cheap beer and the heavy weight of sulfur. The steps are wrong for cowboy boots and he knows, like an alarm going off in his mind, the sound of those footsteps. Cage’s gait is unique, deceptively heavy yet soft all at once, and his throat tightens as he realizes just how keenly aware of the other man he’d become in the absence of him.

Little things he’d taken for granted that were glaringly apparent when he’d spent time, breaking old habits formed somewhere from the moment his feet hit the rushing trailer of the semi and the first time he’d looked seeing Xander giving chase. Not even Serena had kept pace so evenly. The hair crawls on the back of his neck and he swears he can hear the shift of fabric and the crunching of grass. It means Xander is there, chasing him again and keeping pace. Xiang excels in making it hard to be followed, time and time again it was his unpredictability that gave him an edge. Some (even Serena) thought him half-mad and maybe, maybe he was --

Happy 4th of July.

They fall back into an old rhythm, Xiang fights back the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was simple as breathing. Oh how he ran, oh how devoutly Xander hunted until here they were two wild animals breathless and tired amongst mindless sheep. His head tilts, the only sign he’s acknowledged the words and his eyes stayed fixed on the sky. Xiang imagined, sometimes late at night when sleep escaped him, how this might go between them.

Truthfully Xiang has never thought it would be so -- easy.

“You’re late,” he says quietly, “Someone named Ted tried to take your spot.”

His knees are hugged close to his body, the fireworks whistling as they take flight in golden spirals higher, higher. Xiang tried it, being normal, giving up the exhilaration. Of course he’d sought out adrenaline elsewhere. No small surprise his attention went to rock climbing and in turn to another fixation -- Ted. The spot next to him was supposed to be filled by plain boring Ted (but how do you fill a place already taken much less try to replace the ache tattoo deep on his heart belonging to Xander?). Xiang ran, wanting the drumming in his ears to drown out the ache.

One wrong word, one poorly timed comment, and a youtube video with Xander pulling some stupid trick. Ted ended up with an arm broken in six places and Xiang found himself running again, drifting. His backpack his next to him on the blanket, moved wordlessly from one side to the grass in a silent offer for the space next to him.

“I thought you’d given up.”

Xiang doesn’t look at him, it feels too much like a dream far off and distant. Looking would break the spell and the ache in his chest is slowly easing away the longer he breathes, the more he imagines the warmth of Xander’s body under his fingertips instead of behind him just out of arm’s reach.

There’s something dangerous and fragile in his voice. Xiang’s eyes are on the fireworks and the soft burst of red. The finale is on the edge, the calm in the air palpable. “......I missed you,” he confesses, quiet, hushed to the sky, to the stars, to the trailing tendrils of smoke (because admitting Xander is here is making it real and breathing life into that naive hope that for once he could stop running). A breath. A pause. Xiang can distantly see the men lighting the fireworks preparing for the final show but in that tense moment he finds his courage.

It doesn’t take much to turn, to meet those eyes, and face the rushing onslaught of emotions slamming in his chest. It’s like nothing has changed and that knowledge alone is terrifying.

It’s almost been two months since they’ve spoken more than passing words, shared fleeting looks, and then Xiang vanished like smoke. Not even Serena would know where he’d run but it was as though he never existed. Days. Weeks. And now it’s here, in the vibrant bursts of color across the sky that he finally emerges and turns his face towards the fireworks dancing across the sky. He sees different memories -- thoughts of a naive boy laughing while running alongside his sister despite their mother’s words of caution -- than most who are celebrating something else. Freedom, independence, he could recite the angry words flung at him about liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Distantly he still hears the grating country music even though he’d long since smashed the phone in the man’s jaw effectively breaking it.

Now though, now Xiang is alone, looking up at a dark sky with his feet placed on the cool grass. It feels akin to the calm rolling in before the storm, the thundering fire of crackling lights drumming in the air in time with his heart. No doubt Xander has eyes and ears here -- distantly he wonders how long it will take until he’s found, trapped in a cage of strong arms he knows he could escape if only he could raise his hands to fight against them.

A deep breath slips free, his eyes following drifting embers. The tempo of the show is on the decline and Xiang can read the crowd well enough to know the finale is soon to come.

He counts, keeping time with the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears. Run, his thoughts bade, run and never look back. Because Xander was the quiet blade sinking deeper between his ribs, burning his lungs, drowning him slowly, and the things he wants are terrifying. Words would make it real. They would take away everything real and Xiang knows if that knife is ever removed from it’s place buried deep, he won’t survive.

Eyes follow the vivid trail of another firework as it spirals high in the sky, erupting in a shower of golds and greens.

Perhaps if he’d paid closer attention to the drinks, who was touching what, why someone under his employ hadn’t noticed when something was different. Either way, he’s quick with his hands, quicker than the hunter grabs him. The patrons barely notice -- thanks in part to his magic -- that the skulking witch hunter has him by the neck as he walks towards the back rooms. It just looks like Xander is seeking him out not dragging him like a pound of flesh to be fucked. I’m scared, flits briefly in the forefront of his mind as he becomes increasingly aware of how easily those hands can rip him apart. The thought is exhilerating in a way, not truly terrifying. Xiang’s hands fumble with the lock as he chokes on air, chest heaving as those hands rip delicate silks apart. His eyes gleam with vibrant light, fingertips bright with flames that sear the runes carved on the door. No one would hear them, it was fine, he could handle the hunter on his own.

Hands are pinned above his head, he is naked, vulnerable to those hissing words and growls that snake through his veins hotly. Xiang’s features draw together, a heady mix of arousal and concern present. Love you, the hunter confesses as though it were something he needed to snarl out against his skin. It must be a spell or a potion of some kind, the warlock thinks to himself, breath hitching as he’s thoroughly ravaged by the other man’s mouth. “Slowly,” he’s urging, brows knit together as he arches, body straining in the hunter’s vice-like grip. “Slowly, hunter, show me how you love me.” Perhaps he can buy some time by making Xander dally, making him focus instead upon lavishing attention. “I want to see how you love me.”

Xiang was making him use words he’d never had to put together in that order, not since his aunt had died, and the world had let him slip through the cracks. He’d learned quickly that when things got real, when they got serious, that’s when things changed, people were ripped from your life and you were left with a gaping hole. An emptiness that couldn’t be filled, one you had to learn to live with, or the hole’d just get bigger. 

Xander wasn’t small, but standing there, in his living room, he looked it. Shoulders sunk in, head down, he couldn’t even look the other man in the face, couldn’t just get his tongue and lips to cooperate and say ‘not don’t want to. never don’t want to’. Why couldn’t he just say it? He wanted to curse, to throw things, to do something, anything to show Xiang that it wasn’t that he didn’t feel the same, that he did want to say it, he just… couldn’t. How did you even begin to say that to a person whose eyes held the entire rest of your life in them? 

He slunk to the closest chair and sat with a dull thud, a sigh that showed his age, and a swallow that almost echoed. “Last time I did, my aunt died.” And now I think it’s bad luck. If i say it, what if the next time someone shoots you, you’re not wearing body armor? Or you miscalculate and fall off a building with no chute? There were a lot of words he couldn’t say right now, but a few he could. 

“Guess I finally failed at something,” a sick bit of laughter as one rebellious tear trickles slowly down his cheek. He wipes it quickly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Figures it would be important.” 

It was a curiosity that was gnawing away at him, greedily digging in at all the little parts ever since he’d imagined those three little words slipping free making him vulnerable. For Xiang it comes with a life sentence, a cage that’s wrapped around his heart so tightly it feels like for a moment he can’t breathe. But then the question was there, why hadn’t Xander said it, even once? He didn’t want it sung from the rooftops or whispered into his skin, no, he’s recoiling considering Xander as the type of person to do that.

Just once.

Because whatever this was, him and the man in front of him, it was slipping into dangerous territory where it was real and words held viable weight.

Xander is painfully quiet and Xiang feels an answering sort of panic swelling up hotly, suffocating him, making his stomach twist with the threat of bile. He caused this, he made those proud shoulders cave in and twist inward. His chest tightens painfully, fingers itching to reach out and touch as if it’ll make things better. It’s how he knows he’s in too deep, twisted up in hulking muscles and tattoos skin. When did he let Xander so close to his heart? When did this stop being a game where they fucked and laughed it off?

Last time I did, my aunt died.

Xiang takes a step back as if struck, his expression betraying nothing as his eyes linger anywhere but those twisted up features. A curse? Did Xander think it was a loaded gun waiting to be pulled? A part of him is just reckless enough to want to chase him down, make him swallow his doubt and kiss his own confession against his lips. For a moment he nearly steps closer to the chair Cage has sunk down into, eyes dancing over his features.

But then he sees that tear and Xander might have been better off just shooting him.

“It’s not important,” he says, the lie coming out as a forced truth. Xiang is caught, heart hammering in his chest as a symphony of blame erupts in his skull. How could he have known it would hurt Xander so deeply? There’s a smile on his lips and he ducks his head, “Don’t worry about it.” It was selfish expecting one thing, just one, that would set him apart from the countless women before him and settle the way his chest hurt viciously when Xander’s gaze was on someone new.

When did he become so jealous? When did he get so attached?

His phone rings and Xiang is almost too quick to answer it, turning away and answering in hurried cantonese. A few more steps away, that anxious energy is coiling hotly and every part of him wants to run. Instead he’s running a hand along the back of his neck, listening to the call and pacing restlessly.

His entire expression softened, the skin around his eyes crinkling before his smile turned downright lewd and he walked over, standing, legs on either side of Xiang’s as he sat there. “You rang?” 

Adrenaline is hot in his veins. Dried blood on his hands and Xander towering over him tends to have him two steps away from feral. Then there’s warm pressure, the heft of him settling in his lap. It’s rare but it happens. Fingers curl in fabric, tugging until their mouth crush together and he can forget the sickening crack of bones as he dropped bodies to the floor.

Xander tastes like sweat and heat, a burn he doesn’t want to forget.

“Bùyào àomàn yǔ wǒ,” he snarls against the other man’s jaw, only so content asking questions innocently for so long. Lips find Xander’s earlobe, his teeth sinking in at warm flesh while his hands heft the weight of him closer. It’s easy enough to push himself upright, the tricky part is when Xiang turns, dropping him into the chair and pinning him down with a slow grind of his hips.

He was doing this on purpose. For some reason, Xander never caught on until too late. Heaving a sigh, he looks back over his shoulder and…damn. The immature five year old inside him wants to grab a drink for him, but then pour it on him instead. That was too immature even for him. Xiang didn’t play fair but Xander wasn’t that much of an asshole. Besides, he was just laying there, all perfect. What a dick. 

“Oh, I bet you’re thirsty.” Always wanting to have the last word before whatever was going to happen, Xander did leave the room, and he was gone for at least 30 seconds because he actually did get a bottle of water, holding it out as he walked back in. The temptation to pour it came back, but he took a slow drink, sighing with the pleasure of the coldness hitting the back of his throat. “You’re so thirsty, you come get it.” There was intentionally just a few feet between the edge of the bed and Xander’s legs. He wasn’t going to make it easy for Xiang, not if he was playing dirty. 

There’s a smug sort of satisfaction seeing Xander looking for some ulterior motive on his part. It’s become something of a game, pretending to want nothing and then lunging to take the upper hand or merely wanting nothing. Strange as it was, Xiang thrived off the thrill and chaos of pushing and taunting just to see how Xander will react, seeing what the next big high they can chase together will be when they lay their cards out.

A chuckle slips free, muffled into the twisted up pile of blankets as he hears that grumbling comment. He can see it in Xander’s eyes, that twinkle of choices dancing around -- no doubt he’d already contemplated pouring water on him instead but he knows Cage isn’t that much of an ass. That and he wasn’t five years old. So obviously when Xander wants him to come and get it, that means Xiang doesn’t play like his opponent is five years old.

So he’s lifting up his body just enough that he can meet Xander’s eyes, that mischievous gleam in his gaze. Lips part and Xiang leans forward, head tilted up as he opens his mouth just a little further.

Xander’s eyes flicker downwards, taking in the almond skin, the muscles, his tongue running across his teeth visibly. He smirked. So they were playing chicken, calling each other’s bluff. Xiang had to know it wouldn’t be that easy. His shrug looked less than half-hearted, but there was a certain nonchalance about him as he shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“Guess the blanket beast forgot I’m kind of an asshole.” He turns to leave the room, knowing if he keeps staring at him, his resolve might break. 

Xiang nearly laughs, seeing that Xander is tempted but also incredibly stubborn. It’s what he expects from Cage by now but that doesn’t mean there’s no weapons left in his arsenal. A slight hum is offered and the sheets rustle a bit as he stretches, splayed out on his stomach now. Asshole or not, they both knew he never played fair. Cheek resting on his arm, he watches Xander through lidded eyes.

“Before you go,” Xiang waits for those eyes to come back to him and there’s a smile he manages to bite back as he makes a show of arching his hips as if getting comfortable.

Thighs spread on the sheets and he settles, still under the guise of relaxing -- it’s the weekend and for once Xiang has come to appreciate it -- before raising a brow. “Maybe you could grab the blanket monster something to drink.” His smile is hidden against his arm as he watches the set of Xander’s shoulders, curling up into the blankets as he turns on his side, the long line of his body visible. Eyes dance with laughter and a quiet challenge.

Xander looked down at him, the mass of blankets with a face, and let a slow breath out through his nose. Before inhaling, his tongue come out, wetting his lower lip, his eyebrows raise. “All right, fine, you wanna be a blanket beast, I’ll take me and my body heat to the couch.” 

Quiet laughter slips free, Xiang may appear to be lazy and sleepy but that doesn’t mean he can’t easily call Xander’s bluff. Blankets shift and move aside, revealing skin -- too much skin -- with the taunt that there’s little else underneath the countless layers. There’s laughter at his eyes as he gives a shallow shrug and stretches like a satisfied cat.

Okay so maybe picking a fight with a Chinaman was a bad idea. Didn’t they all learn kung fu in the womb or something? But it’s great. He barely even did anything, and this guy’s so mad he’s going to try to beat the shit out of him. He’s probably going to succeed, some little part of the back of Xander’s head tells him, but right now, he’s too cocky to think anything like that consciously. “Ooh, you know words hurt.” he manages to get out before there’s a kick at his face. He dodges that, but this guy is fast , and he gets a couple punches into his rib cage. Xander rolls out, gets a little distance so he can run his mouth some more while he puts up his dukes. 

“I’m touched, though, you let me eat a whole meal. I woulda tasted the rat poison, you woulda wasted food, and dad woulda been angry.” The man’s speed was against him, brute strength was great, but it was nothing if you couldn’t land a punch. Dancing around, Xander’s in a boxer’s stance. He may not be Bruce Lee, but the guy can fight. It’s a pity he’d locked his conscience in a box so long ago when he started searching for the best and most extreme thrills, else it would tell him this was stupid, wasn’t worth the potentiality of getting caught for a fight right after he got away with base jumping. But his heart’s racing almost as fast and it’s something about this guy and this fight. He’s not going anywhere. He’d gotten in fights before, but not like this. Nothing got him feeling like this, and Xander wonders if it’s just the fight or if it’s the guy , not that he even understands what that means. He throws a heavy jab at his gut, and right on it’s heels came his big right hook at the side of his head.

Xiang knows he should be calm, and usually in a fight he is precisely that, but now he doesn’t think of his teachings. There are no more words spared, his mouth is clamped tightly and muscles jumping at his jaw. He focuses instead on the way the man is moving, ignoring the words and gripping the man’s wrist to move with the punch to his gut and push the fist up and away from his face before spinning and using the momentum to throw the man back against the dumpster. His palms ache, stinging from the sheer ferocity behind those punches before he’s lunging forward and aiming more fast strikes at the man’s abdomen. It was something he would have to deal with later, knowing his knuckles would bruise with the way he doesn’t think about how his fists are landing. Instead he doesn’t stop until he’s got the man’s shirt in his hands and then he ducks low, using his legs to throw him further and kick him down the alley before twisting and getting to his feet once more. 

A sigh slips free and he brushes himself off. “Leave. If I see you again I won’t hesitate in putting you down like the wild dog you are.” Xiang spits on the ground and heads back into the shop, letting the door lock behind himself and hide the way his hands are shaking. It was something about the man that got to him, made him hyper-aware of the ways he spat on his culture and in his mind, his family’s honor. His father doesn’t question why his knuckles are coloring over with bruises when he returns to serving food, and he shakes his head at his sister’s wordless questioning. It’s easier to ignore it and to hide beneath the mask of a good son. 

To be fair, Xander wasn’t assuming his name, he was calling him Bruce to be a dick. On purpose. Because he could see enough to see that it would get to him. That little twitch in his eye when he says it, too, it’s a little more exhilarating then perhaps it should be. But look at him, not wanting to upset daddy dearest, he’s even bowing to him. Sure, it’s probably the culture, but damn if it didn’t feel like a win to Xander. He’d gotten him. Nice little icing on the cake of this afternoon. His heart rate had just gotten down to normal, but already it’s beating faster now, seeing just how far he can push him, just how far he can go before this little hot-headed Asian snaps and irrevocably fucks up his relationship with his dad and whatever sibling or family member that young girl is. Some of the patrons give him a look, and he just smiles at them before going back to rather convincingly pretending to read the paper. 

He’s near enough to the kitchen he can hear the TV cut to a news story, and he’s frankly surprised it took them this long to get him on air. Sandy over at channel five must be slipping. She was pregnant, maybe that was it. Xander knows his face is going to be on that screen, and he hopes the waiter sees it. What now, tough guy, you gonna poison me? That was just a trope, no one actually did that(right?). Food laid out before him, he can almost smell that there’s more than the average “white boy” spice on it. He takes his chopsticks and grabs a piece of the beef. “Well maybe I’ll just have to go out back after I’m done.” Leveling eye to eye with the waiter, he puts the beef in his mouth. That…was a lot of pepper. Whatever that special Chinese secret sauce was. His mouth was on fire, but outside of a little, single, cough, and the widening of his eyes for just a moment, he doesn’t let the waiter know he got him. “Tastes great,” he says, mostly to himself, though he knows the waiter’s still in ear shot. Xander manages to get the entire plate downed, even though he does swallow his pride and drink the tea to cut the spices, and leaves sixty bucks on the table. Call it an extra tip for letting him hide out. 

It’s been close to half an hour now, he’s sure they’re not looking for him this close to the scene anymore, so he finds the glowing red EXIT sign and heads out the back way, giving a glance over his shoulder to the waiter. He’s leaning against the dumpster out back when he hears the door open. “You wanna know my complaint? You’re acting like a li'l bitch.” but he’s grinning as he says it, “You think you’re the first guy to dump an extra cup of spicy shit into my food?” Maybe that says something about Xander, but he doesn’t dwell on it.

A part of him knows that the man is doing this purely for a rise and it’s infuriating how easily something like this gets under his veins. But here he is, about to break something over the asshole’s head. His sister’s fingers are warm, a tentative warning in between carrying orders tot he other tables with a small smile. The outsider is looking at him with that pointed sort of aggression and Xiang makes a point of ignoring it in favor of doing his job while they only briefly pay attention to the news in the background. It was more like white noise at this point anyways if they’re honest. His father is telling him to refill the water at the other tables and to get the man more tea. Though none of them pay attention tot eh television, and Xiang goes as far as pointedly changing the channel when he notices how the outsider’s attention has snapped to the screen. Instead it’s bingo and his sister doesn’t ask why he is paying close attention. 

“You shouldn’t hold the glasses so tight, brother,” again she touches his arm and he relaxes instinctively before giving a shallow nod. Two more waters and he’s making his rounds only to notice the man is finally gone and something close to relief sinks into his veins. Xiang is almost impressed that the plate is empty, most couldn’t stomach the heat. It’s well after fifteen minutes after the man’s absence before curiosity gets the better of him and he tugs loose the obnoxious bow-tie he’s forced to wear. His shirt is draped over the chair in the back and he steps out in a tank-top and slacks only to be greeted with a string of words that have has blood boiling over. 

Oh, so it was gonna be like that? Okay. Fair enough. Maybe there was a small part of Xander that understood he was being a huge imposition on their quiet little tea shop, bringing his rowdy ass in and hiding in a place he had no business hiding in, but that didn’t mean this guy had to be a petty little shit. He’s chewing the meat of the inside of his lower lip, mischief dancing in his eyes. He has to bite harder not to laugh when he hears the older man and the young woman. He can’t speak it, but he knows they’re not happy with this waiter boy, probably daddy dearest going on about some respect thing. Xander looks at the menu(which is in English), lazily perusing it until he sees the teapot. He closes the menu and sets it down quietly, throwing a smile to the father, who of course is just glaring at him (he got used to that). “Look, Bruce,” because all Asian guys were either Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan, and this guy wasn’t funny enough to be Jackie, “I bet that’s the best tea in the damn world, but that ain’t what I ordered.” He threads his fingers together, resting them on the menu instead of grabbing the pot and smashing it on the floor. It was a tempting impulse. “Chow mein and that spicy Mongolian beef, thanks.” At least Xander thought ahead and had packed a few crumpled twenties in his jump suit pants, which he was now seeing stand out like the sore thumbs they were. At least there was a long tablecloth.

Bruce. Jackie. Wing Chong. All kinds of american tourists came in here and assumed his name just because they were white and entitled. Xiang nearly snaps his pen with frustration before finding that calm at the twisted up center of his being. His father is talking cheerfully again, trusting him with this and with maintaining a certain image. Distantly he can hear his sister talking to their cousin about the dishes in hurried Chinese while he’s stuck here dealing with this agitation. A deep breath that isn’t quite a deep breath, instead it’s a stilted sigh through his nose as he pulls out his pen and lets the man talk while he waits patiently to get the rest of his order. He makes sure to note that the mongolian beef is supposed to be extra hot along with the chow mein and when the man is finished he merely dips his head tersely and turns on his heel.