All-Star Weekend was a marketing tool. Every pro player knew that their fans loved the opportunity for a true popularity contest and to see their gods exhibit their skill in unusual matchups where the points didn’t matter.
All-Star Weekend was also a gift to the players themselves. Where else could they gather together for so long? Where else could they so easily converse with opponents and allies, trading notes and taunts about strategies that could still be improved?
Where else, Zhang Jiale thought as he took another swallow of his beer, could they play party games like the youths they were?
Not everyone was gathered in the late-night lounge. Han Wenqing had bailed shortly after dinner wrapped up. Lin Jie had laughed and left them to it. Wu Xuefeng had ruffled Ye Qiu’s hair and told him, cheerfully, not to stay up too late. Others had departed, yawning and leaning on each other, as the evening progressed and the adrenaline of the weekend faded.
But Ye Qiu had stayed, and Zhang Jiale had too. Sun Zheping, when he’d bowed out of the party, had even been kind enough not to tease him about just why he was staying, which was more than Zhang Jiale thought he deserved.
As everyone had drunk more and lost the last vestiges of their professional status, they’d devolved from blackjack and mahjong into truth or dare. Mostly, it had been low-stakes: the names of first crushes or celebrity crushes, performing push-ups or attempting flips, what their family expected them to do in the future, imitating absent peers to mock them.
Wei Chen broke that streak. “Kiss someone playing this game within the next five minutes,” he said to Ye Qiu. An almost-empty bottle dangled from one hand, and an unlit cigarette rested in the other. He pointed the cigarette at Ye Qiu like a knife or a wand. “And don’t give me any of this bullshit kiss-on-the-cheek crap. A proper kiss or it doesn’t count.”
Zhang Jiale did not choke on his drink, but neither did he burst out laughing the way Lin Jingyan did. Ye Qiu himself just narrowed his eyes at Wei Chen, who just fluttered his eyelashes and wiggled his fingers in a come-hither gesture.
“You could forfeit,” Deng Fusheng said after a moment passed. “You don’t need to accept the dare.”
Wei Chen snorted. “Is the Battle God a coward?”
Ye Qiu’s eyes flashed, and he stood up from the chair he’d been lounging in. “Cowardice?” He strode over to Wei Chen, who sat up in apparent startlement. An ugly feeling grew in Zhang Jiale’s gut; the beer he’d been enjoying felt sour as Ye Qiu bent towards Wei Chen’s face. “I think you’re the coward,” Ye Qiu whispered, and snatched his cigarette away.
Zhang Yiwei whooped and catcalled Wei Chen, happy to have a new target who would curse him right back in a way Ye Qiu rarely would.
Zhang Jiale just stared, frozen in place, as Ye Qiu turned to him with a smirk. “Jiale,” Ye Qiu said, voice quiet underneath the shouting. “Come here.”
In a daze, Zhang Jiale stood. Fang Shiqian gave him a helpful shove forward as he passed, sending Zhang Jiale stumbling into Ye Qiu’s arms. “Sorry,” Zhang Jiale said, righting himself. He was still clutching Ye Qiu’s arms. Ye Qiu was still bracing him, seemingly amused. “I didn’t—”
Ye Qiu smiled. Softly enough that Zhang Jiale was pretty sure nobody else could hear, he said, “You propositioned me last summer. You were drunk then. Did you mean it?”
“I—” Zhang Jiale blushed. He’d been raging about how Han Wenqing had cut through him and Sun Zheping in a moment during last season’s play-offs, and thought about how beautifully Ye Qiu and Wu Xuefeng had reversed those circumstances in the finals, and sent Ye Qiu a message before he could think better of it. He had meant it. He hadn’t meant it like this, not then, but the bubbles in his stomach burst and the words they carried through his throat and out his mouth were, “Yes. I meant it.”
There was a moment, as Ye Qiu held his gaze, where Zhang Jiale thought he would expire from embarrassment. Then Ye Qiu—without breaking eye contact—called out, “Lao-Wei! If you miss this, that’s your problem!”
Then he leaned forward and kissed Zhang Jiale.
Zhang Jiale was aware that the other pros were hollering. He didn’t particularly care, though, because Ye Qiu’s lips were on his. It wasn’t much—a brief kiss, the brush of skin against skin—but Zhang Jiale leaned into it, chasing the sensation even as Ye Qiu retreated.
Ye Qiu laughed. “If you want more,” he murmured, his breath hot on Zhang Jiale’s mouth, “follow me when I leave.”
“Okay,” Zhang Jiale whispered. He didn’t let go of Ye Qiu. He was pretty sure that if he did, he’d tumble to the ground.
Ye Qiu led him, step by step, back to his chair. He pressed Zhang Jiale into it, grinned, and then said, “Yiwei! Truth or dare!”
“Ah—” Samsara’s Sharpshooter stumbled over his words. Hesitantly, he said, “Dare?”
“Drink a shot of hot sauce.” Ye Qiu returned to his own seat, flicking a lighter in his hands. “Pretty sure there’s still some hanging around.”
The game continued, and Zhang Jiale was pretty sure he participated and didn’t make an ass of himself any more than the rest of them did, but he didn’t remember anything else until the clocks struck midnight.
Ye Qiu excused himself then. Zhang Jiale waited another round before bowing out himself.
He found Ye Qiu still in the hall outside, a lit cigarette between his lips. “I’d almost thought you’d forgotten,” Ye Qiu said. He beckoned for Zhang Jiale to follow him. “You still sober enough?”
“Yeah.” He hadn’t actually been drinking that much, choosing instead to snack on the remaining nuts and fruits and crackers; the kiss had been a better buzz. Zhang Jiale tucked his hands into his pockets, awkward and unsure what to do with them. “Where are we going?”
“My room.” Ye Qiu blew a plume of smoke from his lips. “Champion privileges. I don’t use it for much, but having a room to myself is useful sometimes.”
Zhang Jiale laughed. It sounded too loud in the empty hallway, carpeted floor swallowing the sound as Ye Qiu led him into an elevator. “For kissing?”
“For any kind of solitude.” Ye Qiu leaned against the elevator wall. He cocked his head, pulled the cigarette out of his lips, said, “Do you want it to just be kissing?”
“Do you do this a lot?” Zhang Jiale asked. He hadn’t meant to ask that. He’d at least wanted to sound unconcerned if he did, but he knew it had come out plaintive and nervous.
Ye Qiu shrugged. The elevator dinged. “Not often, no.” He took another draw on his cigarette, led Zhang Jiale down the hall to a door like any other. “There’s not actually that much opportunity. Lao-Han says I intimidate people; as if he’s not worse.”
Zhang Jiale laughed, startled, as he followed Ye Qiu into the hotel room; it was no different from the one he and Sun Zheping shared. “I guess he’d know.”
“He’s projecting.” Ye Qiu stubbed out his cigarette and picked up a mint from a bowl placed next to the ashtray. “You don’t smoke,” he said, popping the mint in his mouth, “so you probably don’t want to kiss me right away.”
“I do want to. Kiss you, that is.” Zhang Jiale sat on the bed. It squeaked beneath him, the least surreal element of this whole scene. So ordinary, and yet. He swallowed as Ye Qiu joined him, close enough to press their legs together. “You—” The rest of the words stuck in his throat.
Ye Qiu wrapped an arm around his shoulder. Warm. Solid. Heavier than Zhang Jiale would’ve expected, and comforting for it. “Is it strange to think that I want to kiss you too?” he asked. The mint cracked in counterpoint to his words, bright and sharp in his breath.
“You don’t seem the sort.” It was weird to think about Ye Qiu, the most mysterious god of Glory, kissing anyone. Once Zhang Jiale got past that, the idea that Ye Qiu wanted to kiss him was… still strange, but he could comprehend it.
“Cheeky gunners are my weakness,” Ye Qiu said, and though he was laughing there was a catch in his throat. “You still haven’t answered my question. Just kissing?”
“I— Yeah.” Zhang Jiale rubbed his face and then looked at Ye Qiu, feeling sheepish. He’d stayed up past midnight so many times before, but the one-two-three of the All-Stars exhibition and the party and the kissing was just— “Maybe more some other time, though.”
Ye Qiu reached up to draw Zhang Jiale’s face towards his. “Another time, huh?” he murmured. He must have swallowed the mint at some point, but Zhang Jiale had no idea when. “I like the sound of that.”
“Thought you wanted to kiss, not talk.” Zhang Jiale braced a hand on Ye Qiu’s leg and closed the distance between them. He hadn’t kissed many people, but it was easy to find his place on Ye Qiu’s face and bring their lips together.
This time, he could appreciate the way Ye Qiu smiled against his mouth. This time, he parted his lips when Ye Qiu’s tongue brushed against them. This time, he could let himself enjoy it.
Zhang Jiale had meant to initiate more this time, to explore Ye Qiu as surely as Ye Qiu was learning him, but he found himself incapable of doing much more than reacting to the slow press and slide of Ye Qiu’s kisses.
He’d been kissed hard before, kissed deep and adrenaline-fast, and Zhang Jiale had thought those kisses had taken his breath away; compared to this, they were nothing. It wasn’t like Ye Qiu was doing much, either; none of his gentle kisses lasted very long very long on their own. There were just so many, each release and rejoining building the heat in Zhang Jiale’s core. He chased that contact, leaning into Ye Qiu’s space, drinking in Ye Qiu’s air, losing himself in Ye Qiu’s touch. He felt like he was floating, like he was an empty vessel filled with nothing but bright and breathless joy.
Ye Qiu’s fingers tangled in Zhang Jiale’s hair. Probably he’d meant that to keep them steady; still, when he tugged Zhang Jiale moved with him, swinging himself onto Ye Qiu’s lap for a better angle. Ye Qiu’s breath hitched even as he laughed and grabbed at Zhang Jiale’s waist to hold him down. “You like it there?” he asked breathlessly, looking up at Zhang Jiale. “Still just kissing tonight?”
Zhang Jiale cradled Ye Qiu’s face in his hands for a moment, taking in his soft smile and dancing eyes. Desire sang through him, taut and shining, but Zhang Jiale didn’t feel a need to do something about it; this was precious enough. “Some other time,” Zhang Jiale said, pressing a kiss to the tip of Ye Qiu’s nose. Ye Qiu laughed, startled, as Zhang Jiale scattered another few across his cheeks. “I got tired of leaning across you, that’s all.”
“You didn’t need to sit on me,” Ye Qiu pointed out. He leaned forward, slipping under Zhang Jiale’s chin as he said, “There were other solutions.” Then, before Zhang Jiale could respond, Ye Qiu kissed Zhang Jiale’s neck, warm and soft and unbearably gentle.
Zhang Jiale groaned, arching into the touch; he wanted Ye Qiu to suck there, not just touch his lips to the skin. “You could—”
Ye Qiu shifted beneath him and squeezed the crests of Zhang Jiale’s hips. “If you want everyone to believe I took you to bed”—his mouth was still against Zhang Jiale’s throat, so every fervent word vibrated through his skin—“then I will leave marks they can see.”
Zhang Jiale whined and his legs opened wider as he ground into Ye Qiu. Then, as his brain caught up to his body, Zhang Jiale grabbed Ye Qiu’s shoulders and pushed him back with a curse. Ye Qiu’s breath was just as ragged as his, which Zhang Jiale was grateful for; he was barely up to holding himself together right now. Ye Qiu’s grip on Zhang Jiale’s hips was just as tight as Zhang Jiale’s must be on his shoulders, too.
“I think,” Zhang Jiale said, trying not to pant or beg, “that you will be taking me to bed if we go any further.”
Ye Qiu nodded and took a deep breath. His hands loosened as he exhaled, and Zhang Jiale realised Ye Qiu’s fingers had slipped under the edge of Zhang Jiale’s shirt at some point, and were distractingly soft and warm on his skin. “Two months until we face each other again.” Ye Qiu sounded so clear-headed. Zhang Jiale had no idea how he managed that when he’d been teetering just as close to falling over the line they’d drawn. “We’ll come back to this.”
“Yeah.” Zhang Jiale trailed his fingers up Ye Qiu’s neck, around the back of his ear, into his unkempt hair. Ye Qiu’s eyes slid closed as Zhang Jiale cupped the back of his head. “But, fuck, I want to keep kissing you right now.”
“Then kiss me.” Ye Qiu smiled. His eyes stayed shut. His hands relaxed and wrapped around Zhang Jiale’s waist, catching him in a loose hug. “I trust your self-control.”
Zhang Jiale swallowed, wetting his suddenly dry mouth. “Okay,” he whispered, and bent back to Ye Qiu’s lips. They tasted like smoke and mint, and they were a little chapped, and Zhang Jiale wanted to swallow Ye Qiu whole.
But he didn’t, no matter how tempting the sighs and groans Ye Qiu made were, no matter how many sparks rattled down his spine at the flicks of Ye Qiu’s tongue against his, no matter how hard it was to keep still on Ye Qiu’s lap. He wanted to be able to remember every moment of when they went further, not for it to be part of tonight’s alcohol-fuzzed blur of tired sweetness in his heart.
Tomorrow, this encounter might seem like a dream.
Next time, Zhang Jiale promised himself, it would be crystal clear.