will'o-the-wisp

The shop will be closing soon. He’s seen an attendant wandering around, who will probably ask him to leave in the next five minutes. There’s no one else here. His clothes are vivid against the neon glow of the tanks. The fish cast strange shadows on his shirt, living out a second life on his skin.

They swim in half-circles before sharply changing direction, never touching the glass. He wonders if they know it’s there, as if they can sense some immovable wall that holds them back.

He’s not getting deep about this. He could contemplate, quite extensively, about how their freedom must be bought by some higher power, and they would really only go from one tank to the next, slightly bigger, slightly richer. It’s all fake shit, and he remembers that in some ways he’s got it better than an animal. He can, at least, run away. Maybe he won’t get far. Just to the edges of the city villages where he’ll get a job earning less than before and lose his place in school.

Guan Shan puts a finger on the glass in front of him. There’s a label in the corner, peeling away from the glass. Veiltail goldfish. They have wispy, membrane-like tails. He could put his hand on the other side and see all the way through. Guan Shan watches the only black fish in the tank move placidly through the water.

Beneath the label, a smaller one: Black moor. For a minute he considers tugging the label off and putting it in his pocket, a little secret. He remembers that would be stealing, in some way, and someone in the shop would have to go to the effort of printing and laminating and reapplying the label just for one fish.

Guan Shan turns away.

He wanders for a few more minutes. He’s aware of his reflection in the glass. He worries about how long the attendant will let him stay there, and the thought that they will make him leave makes him feel slightly sick. He likes it here—the quiet, the muted hum of the tanks, the strange lights. They make him feel somewhere else.

His mother is working the night shift and won’t be home until just before he’s meant to go to school the next morning. They’ll have long enough together that he could tell her he got fired from the shop, but not long enough that he could reasonably pretend to have forgotten as he tugs on his uniform and slips out the front door.

She won’t be mad—she never is.

She can’t take on another shift.

Mentally, he has started taking stock. His Xbox is a few years old, but he’ll get something for it. He has a stack of old music magazines from his dad that could catch the eye of a collector. His computer, maybe.

The earrings.

His stomach twists.

Really, it’s not much. It’ll earn them a month, which could be just long enough for him to get another job, but what’s the likelihood of that in a city where most kids are just trying to bulk their CV’s for their college applications. Besides, his grades speak for themselves. He got lucky with the shop, and lightning doesn’t strike twice.

‘Hey, kid. We’re closing soon, so unless you wanna buy something…’

Guan Shan nods. His shoulders round.

For no logical reason, he says: ‘Can I take a goldfish?’

‘Sure. The black moor? Saw you had your eye on that one.’

‘No, one of the others.’

The attendant comes up next to him. ‘Just the one? They don’t like being on their own, you know.’

He presses his jaw tightly. A small sound comes out of him. He looks at the price tag and is somehow shocked and saddened to see the figure so low.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘The black one, too, I guess.’

He pays, then leaves. It’s late enough that the streets are quieter than he expected. He’s usually home by now, his shift over, reheating leftovers while he works on his homework. He stands there while the shop attendant locks up behind him, holding the plastic bag with two fish in his hand. He feels stupid. Behind his eyes, he can feel a sort of stinging sensation.

He has the unnameable urge to grab one of the passing strangers and tell them how he’s feeling, what has happened, what could happen. On some level he knows that everyone has their own problems, and he’s not the type of person to overstep his bounds. Instead, he watches them pass, and after a few more minutes he goes to the nearest subway station and gets the train home.

thank you to the very kind person who donated to my ko-fi and requested the below drabble! i hope you enjoy. <3

/

‘How remarkable.’

‘Nice word.’

The man glances at him, a bright look full of mirth. It’s expectant. Guan Shan doesn’t like feeling under the spotlight.

They’re standing side by side. Guan Shan has his hands in his pocket; the dark-haired man beside him has his arms folded, revealing ropes of tattoos that snake around his bare forearms. He has on dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt and he has Guan Shan, sweating in a starched white shirt, feel underdressed.

‘Do you know what I mean? By remarkable?’

‘Guessin’ you’re gonna tell me anyway, aren’t you.’

‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

Guan Shan looks him square in the face. ‘No? Every artist wants to hear someone tell him what his own fuckin’ work means.’

The man points a finger at him. ‘That’s sarcasm.’

‘That’s perceptive.’

The man grins. Probably, he’s waiting for Guan Shan to say he knows him. That he recognises his face. Guan Shan does, of course—He Tian’s face is plastered across every latest edition of Rolling Stones and NME, and pops up at least once an hour on TV for a cologne advert tinted with the blue-black hues of a bruise.

Tonight, He Tian’s movements through the city were tracked on Twitter with disconcerting detail. Perhaps no one quite expected him to arrive at the doors of a public art gallery currently pitching the work of local artists hidden by obscurity and unoriginality. Guan Shan isn’t impressed by celebrity, even if his breath did catch in his throat when he caught sight of his temporary companion. Even if he’s been listening to He Tian’s music since he was a Soundcloud kid mixing tracks from his lonely skyrise and sharing moody preview clips on Instagram.

Guan Shan says, ‘If you’re interested in buyin’, there’s a price book at the front desk.’

He Tian quirks a pierced brow. ‘No charitable raffle?’

‘Oh, you thought starving artist was just a metaphor, huh?’ Guan Shan asks, ignoring the grin that splits across He Tian’s face, handsome as the devil. ‘No, here we’ve gotta actually get paid for our shit. Even the remarkable stuff.’

‘What if I wanted to dispute the cost?’

Guan Shan’s look darkens. ‘The gallery already takes five percent.’

‘I’m—No. What? No, I’m a multi-millionaire. I’m not looking to cut your prices. I’m offering more than I know you’ll be charging.’

Guan Shan rubs the bridge of his nose. After a moment he mutters, ‘This isn’t a charity raffle. You just pay what it’s worth.’

He Tian looks again to the bust standing on its hollowed plaster plinth. It’s good, but it’s not great. It isn’t Guan Shan’s best work, and he has the unnameable desire to tell He Tian this, as if to protect his reputation somehow—or simply feed his ego. It’s a model of himself, throat-up. A sort of brutal rendition in clay, four-fold. A 360-degree walk around the plinth reveals each expression: happiness, sadness, fear, anger. Somehow Guan Shan thinks there is a touch of the same expression in all. He wonders if he should have put something else: joy? Humour? Surprise? But he is sure that each positive emotion is really all the same. He knows too, that the same is said for the negative. Anger is fear and sadness is fear. Guan Shan frowns critically. He should’ve stuck to the two faces, a bust of duality, but instead he chose Janus on steroids. Stupid.

'I want to commission you.’

Guan Shan blinks. He’s forgotten the A-lister standing at his side, who is probably used to being looked at.

‘Yeah?’ he says. He shifts and swallows, his throat clicking dryly.

‘You won the prize for the MFA exhibition, right?’

Guan Shan pauses. ‘I won a prize. They put my work in the basement. At the back.’

‘Well, I saw it.’

Good for you, Guan Shan nearly says. But he doesn’t want to ruin it. He Tian is, bizarrely and suddenly, a potential client—and Guan Shan has already hinted at the embarrassing state of his financial affairs. What the fuck does a rock star like He Tian want with a mid-rate artist like him? He’d find better in New York. Something more avant-garde in LA. Really, he should be looking at Europe. Not Guan Shan’s brutally Bostonian attempt at a self-portrait.

‘What kind of work are you looking for? I only really do in the round.’

‘I know,’ says He Tian. ‘I’m looking for—a gift.’

Guan Shan quirks an eyebrow. ‘Girlfriend?’ Grandiose self-portrait?

‘No—my father.’

Guan Shan hesitates. Hasn’t he read something before about He Tian’s father? Some snippet from an interview, dissected into excruciating detail on some lengthy social media thread? Guan Shan can’t remember the details, but he remembers nothing good.

‘What’s the occasion?’ Guan Shan asks carefully.

‘His retirement.’

Another pause. ‘Why do I get the feelin’ this could end my career?’

‘You’re paying a gallery to advertise your work, rather than having them pay you. Your career really couldn’t get any closer to the ground.’

Guan Shan rears back. ‘Fuck you,’ he spits.

He’s halfway across the gallery before He Tian catches up with him.

It’s then that Guan Shan notices the guard on the front doors. That there is no one else in the gallery, not even the staff. They’re completely alone. The blood, quickly boiled beneath his cheeks, drains.

‘It’s a security precaution,’ says He Tian.

‘Am I a fuckin’ hostage?’ Guan Shan demands.

He Tian snorts. ‘Of course not.’

Through the glass outside, there’s the flash of a camera. Guan Shan swallows.

‘Look,’ says He Tian. He walks across to the circular desk facing the doors and pulls a leather-encased book towards him. It’s the evening’s price list. He Tian presses a fingertip to his tongue and then, once slick, swipes through the pages until he lands on Guan Shan’s name.

‘Got you,’ he murmurs. He pulls out a pen from his back pocket and scribbles something loosely on the page. He looks at Guan Shan. ‘My number,’ he says. ‘And a price. I really wouldn’t be offering if I didn’t think it was worth it.’

Guan Shan‘s head spins. ‘Are you complimentin’ me or insultin’ me now?’

He Tian grins. ‘They do say I’m hard to read.’

‘They also say you’re a fuckin’ asshole.’

‘So you do know who I am.’

Guan Shan’s lip curls. ‘I also think you should let the people who came here for the art back in.’

‘I’m not one of them? A fellow artiste?’

‘You’re a different breed.’

He Tian seems to delight in Guan Shan’s displeasure.

‘Think on it,’ he says, tapping a ringed knuckle against the price book. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

Guan Shan goes still when He Tian passes him, unnecessarily close, the scent of mint and cigarettes just detectable. There’s the sound of a car horn outside on the street—He Tian’s ride. His bodyguard unlocks the gallery doors. With a wink, He Tian is gone.

People flood through the doors within seconds, and the cacophony is suddenly deafening. He Tian’s name is on everyone’s lips—both good and bad. Guan Shan’s head reels with the fact that he hadn’t noticed it was just them.

He spots the gallerist making a beeline for him through the crowd, and Guan Shan quickly snatches the price book and heads for the nearest room with a locked door. He ends up in a store cupboard and switches on his phone torch. Chemicals sting his nose. The price on the paper makes his eyes water.

‘He can’t be fuckin’ serious,’ Guan Shan mutters. He slumps down to the floor, the price book open in his lap. Adrenaline is starting to catch up with him. A sculpture of He Tian’s father—it’s a task he could take or leave. Regardless, he knows what features his hands will form when he’s next in his studio.

Sometimes that happens—a glimpse of a stranger on the subway, the woman who packs his groceries at a market, the officer at a stoplight.

There is something about them so distinct that Guan Shan has to commit their faces to the clay just to clear them from his mind, like sucking out the venom of a snake's bite. Guan Shan has never thought it until now, until seeing him in person, but it’s with impossible certainty that he realises he would know the shape and feel of He Tian’s lips with his eyes closed.

/