"There will be someone to love you and care for you, sir. You just don't realize it yet."
They stand at least six feet apart - not far, considering the great size of Yue-Lung's private quarters - but the distance stretches out before them like the widest of caverns.
"Master Yue-Lung," Blanca says into the stillness, when he receives no answer.
Yue's always loved the way Blanca's said his name, in that level, soothing voice of his. No, that's not it, he's merely grown used to it. Anyone in his position would be jarred by the news - that their faithful bodyguard and closest confidant was leaving him for Ash fucking Lynx, of all people.
Yue-Lung mulls over his words. "I had thought …"
"Yes, sir?"
"I had thought you would … that you might have been the one. The one to care for me." Each word tastes like bile on his tongue. His hands, nonsensically, move to his hair, tugging at the strands and sending a dull ache through his scalp.
Blanca steps forward, brow furrowed thoughtfully. He takes Yue-Lung's hands in his own, coaxing them away from their pulling and knotting. Yue-Lung stiffens but doesn't put up a fight, not even as Blanca kneels, still holding Yue's hands in his much larger ones. His smile is soft.
"It has been my pleasure to serve you, Master Yue-Lung," Blanca says, holding the younger man's gaze. "But I have a life waiting for me back in the Caribbean. You are safe now - and as soon as I can say the same for Ash, I must return home."
It takes Yue-Lung a moment to realize that that loud, ugly choking sound is his own. Tears stream down his face - one, two at first, and then they're pouring. He yanks his hands away and swipes at his cheeks furiously. His face burns; he's green about the gills.
"What are you waiting for?" he snaps, the words coming out both higher and fainter than he'd been planning. "Leave. See if I care."
"Your Highness …"
Blanca hauls himself to his feet. Yue-Lung gazes pointedly at the space just beyond the bodyguard's shoulder. He's still staring long after Blanca is gone, staring but not seeing much of anything.
Yue-Lung tilts the flute back and swallows the glass of champagne in one gulp. It's cold and crisp and bubbly on his tongue - a far cry from the hot mouths of the old political bigwigs he's used to entertaining on nights like these. His brothers had carefully controlled everything back then - what he wore, what he said, how his face was painted. All of this, and not once had they minded the drinking. Yue-Lung considers this, throwing his head back in hysterical laughter.
His servants have been checking on him occasionally, but for the most part they've learned their lesson. Having a crystal glass launched at your head is good for that type of thing, Yue reflects with both a hiccup and a sneer.
He pours another glass and throws himself down on the sofa - one hand just barely supporting his sloshing drink, the other rubbing at the dark bags under his eyes. The ivory silk of the robe he's wearing slides up, revealing long, coltish legs, legs of an equally creamy hue.
He's beautiful; he's always known this, whether he wanted to or not. It's aggravating that he should still be so, even now. Those legs ought to be covered in dark bruises, sharp red cuts, as they have been before on many a night. Squeezed and scraped by dozens of pairs of hands - ruddy hands with thick fingers, covered in gold rings. Bruised and broken, but through it all, still slender, still perfect. Yue downs his drink, tugging his robe about him and covering what little skin he can.
A couple of the overhead lamps flicker above him, faint, yellow, and sickening. Where is that good-for-nothing servant of his? Wasn't he going to change the bulbs sometime soon?
"Wu!" Yue says into the empty room. "Wu!" he shouts, much louder this time.
One of the lights flickers again, fizzing out into the stillness, the quiet.
Nothing fits him right anymore. His sweaters were always baggy anyway, but now he's practically drowning in the coarse wool. His pants hang loose on his waist, a pair of scrawny ankles poking out below. He doesn't look in the mirror anymore, not unless he wants a reminder of how his skin gleams with perspiration, or how his hair hangs, limp and oily, around his waist. All he's ever had is his beauty, and now he doesn't even have that.
He hears Hua-Lung's voice sometimes, just as his drink spills, as he's blacking out. You're no better than a common whore, just like your mother. You're lucky we kept you alive.
Wang-Lung frequently makes an appearance, too. You're a failure. Worthless. A nobody.
Shorter Wong. You're nothing but a venomous snake, sucking the life out of others.
Ash. I wish I could slash your throat. Strangle you with your guts.
Eiji's even there on one occasion, calling him an idiot, a bully.
Blanca's there, too, of course, but he doesn't say anything. Just stares on with pity as Yue-Lung's stomach turns, both backwards and forwards at the same time.
Sing Soo-Ling stares down at the crying boy on the rug. That's all he is, really, a boy, not much older than Sing is. His face twists with worry as he kneels down to meet Yue-Lung at eye level.
"Hey," he says, extending a hand. Yue-Lung ducks his head and sobs, black bangs covering his eyes. Slowly - so slow that Sing barely registers what's happening - Yue relents, turning his gaze back in Sing's direction.
Sing feels a prick of warmth rise to his cheeks as he notes the long lashes on Yue's lower lids, just at the far corners of his eyes. Damn you, Lee Yue-Lung, and your pretty eyes, too.
"Do you mind?" Sing asks, reaching out and wiping Yue-Lung's tears away, one at a time. The older boy doesn't resist; for just a moment, he even seems to lean into the touch.
"We'll both need to be at our best, if we're gonna get Chinatown back under control." Sing hears himself talking, as simply as if he's discussing the weather. Yue-Lung's facing him directly, the drying tears leaving salty trails on his face and neck. "I mean, we have the older guys around to do most of the dirty work, but the first thing a rival gang will see is that we're, you know, fourteen and sixteen, and think we're full of hot air. Okay?"
"Mm-hm," Yue-Lung says, straightening his spine. Throwing himself into this world of bravado - of good guys and bad guys and teamwork and justice - is a welcome break from all the time he's been spending in his head lately. "I did grow up with the Chinese mafia, Sing, or were you forgetting?"
"Eh, whatever," Sing groans, waving a hand absently. "Just remember this is a partnership, Your Highness, not a monarchy."
Yue-Lung's mouth curls into a grin that surprises the both of them. "In that case, you'll have to start carrying yourself in higher regard, Sing, so that we actually look the part of equals."
"Damn!" Sing gripes, swatting in the direction of Yue-Lung's head. "And you were just crying like a girl two minutes ago. What gives?"
I was, wasn't I? Yue-Lung considers.
Blanca, the big He-Man, materializes before him again, his baritone even and almost kind:
There will be someone to love you and care for you, Master Yue-Lung. You just don't realize it yet.
Sing's eyebrows arch in knowing, cocky glee. He stands, dusting off his ripped jeans and, with a sigh of resignation, extends a hand to Yue-Lung.
"Come on, Your Highness," he says, as Yue-Lung begrudgingly accepts his offer. "I want to see more of the lethal assassin I've heard so much about. The one who apparently knows everything about herbs and poisons."
"All in due time, Sing Soo-Ling," Yue-Lung says vaguely.
For the first time in weeks, months - years, really - he doesn't feel so off-kilter. In some indescribable way, the ground doesn't feel like it's about to give out beneath him, even with this whirlwind, this Tasmanian devil of a boy by his side. In fact, in some ways, Sing seems to be the most stabilizing force in the entire room.
But all of that is absurd, of course. A real testament to how off Yue-Lung's been feeling lately, nothing more.
"Okay," Sing says, breaking Yue's reverie. "I gotta say it - and, you know, no offense - but you look like shit. And don't even get me started on the smell! Go take a shower or something, yeah? Then we can really get started."
Yue-Lung wanders off in the direction of his private bathroom - without so much as a snarky comment, though he doesn't realize this until long after the fact. His heart hammers in his chest for what he imagines to be the rest of the afternoon.