Title comes from the Ella Fitzgerald song, an old favorite of mine.
Also, it should be known that I definitely wrote this during my down time at work. I don't think anybody noticed.
Sing vividly recalls the day he first saw Yue-Lung genuinely smile. It wasn't long after they'd reclaimed Chinatown, surprisingly enough – Sing was still a boy of gangly limbs and hair that wouldn't sit flat. All flaming cheeks in the presence of his infuriating-but-undeniably-beautiful partner in crime.
The day had begun like any other, with Yue-Lung sulking on the sofa like the lord of some palace, rather than the tenant of a four hundred square foot apartment. His hair, though disheveled in its braid, still managed to look sleek and smooth, especially against his pallor. Two dots of red touched his cheeks, though Sing could not detect any champagne on his breath. In fact, Yue-Lung smelled lovely, like jasmine and peachy shampoo and a dash of something else, something sophisticated and fragrant, something indescribably Yue-Lung.
"What's got you in a tizzy, Your Highness?" Sing asked mildly, plopping himself down on the chair opposite.
Yue-Lung snorted in a way that was somehow delicate. "I'm just sitting."
"Oh, please. You look every inch the spoiled rajah. Did you miss me that badly?"
"Hardly."
"Well, I missed you, twit that you are," Sing snickered, swinging his legs over the side of the chair and folding his arms over his chest. It wasn't as though Yue-Lung would spare a thought for the scrappy teenager anyway; Sing's filter had become practically nonexistent as a result.
That's what made the flush that spread on Yue-Lung's cheeks, as well as the surprised "oh?" so alarming. Sing, in turn, made a sort of choked sound, eyes boring into the carpet.
What happened next seemed almost comedic, at first, for surely it had not happened on their own plane of existence. Yue-Lung's head tilted to the side, hair falling gently over one eye, gaze cast downward. The dots of red, inexplicably, turned a pinkish hue, his mouth turning up softly at the ends. Sing noted the tiniest of dimples on his left cheek. A dimple!
"I … uh …" Sing's brain lagged. He continued to stare at the ground, at his furiously-tapping foot. "I mean, yeah. I dunno. The days get long. There's plenty of places I'd rather be than, uh, on the turf of rival gangs."
"Thank you, Sing. That's nice of you." The smile had grown to include teeth – a dainty row of pearly whites that Sing, nonsensically, couldn't recall having seen before. The dimple remained.
Sing glanced down, and back up again. Shoved his hands in his pockets. Nodded vigorously.
Yue-Lung's gaze was gentle, knowing.
When Yue-Lung first met Sing, he was every inch the adolescent - barely clearing five feet tall, hair sticking up at all angles, practically living inside his tracksuit hoodie. Vibrating with an untamed energy that made Yue-Lung want to turn away, pretend it wasn't there, for the good of all parties present.
Now, Yue-Lung couldn't look away even if he tried. Sing stood at least a foot taller than him, and had the breadth to fill it out, too. His posture was relaxed, confident, as though he wasn't even aware of his newfound size. His grins came easily, but less with the need to prove something and with more of the easy confidence that came with being Chinatown's boss. He still wore a hoodie and sweatpants, unfortunately, but ones more suited to his girth - and he did occasionally swap these out for a slate-gray suit, when business called. His hair still needed patting down sometimes, but Yue-Lung was comforted, in a way, that some parts of the old Sing remained the same.
"Now I understand how Eiji felt next to Ash," Yue-Lung muttered as Sing ducked to clear the apartment's threshold. "No one would believe I'm your elder anymore."
"Elder? Pssh. You talk as though you're seventy."
"Sometimes I feel seventy."
"Spoken like a true adolescent."
"Look who's talking."
"Hey!" Sing griped. "Not for much longer. Speaking of which, is eighteen still a teenager? How am I a teen but also an adult? Don't tell any of the others I asked," he added as an afterthought.
"How are you eighteen but holding court over all of Chinatown, more like," Yue-Lung said good-humoredly. He patted the spot beside him on the sofa. "Come. Sit. Judging by the state of your suit, you've had a long day."
"Damn right I have," Sing said, loosening his rumpled collar and throwing himself down into his seat - in a way that was very much Sing, Yue-Lung noted pleasantly. The way he proceeded to scoop Yue-Lung into his lap, however, was a recent development.
"You're so beautiful," Sing says, touching a hand to Yue-Lung's hair. It was a bit damp - still drying from a bath, perhaps - but hanging in smooth coils down his back nonetheless. Yue-Lung shivered under the touch, a warmth spreading up his shoulders and neck, right to the base of his scalp. "Makes the day of dealing with all those dog-faces worth it. But don't let it go to your head," he added, noting the way Yue-Lung smiled, much like a contented cat.
"Too late," Yue-Lung said slyly, curling into Sing's chest, resting his head in the crook of the larger man's neck. Sing touched Yue-Lung's hair in soft, rhythmic motions, sometimes twirling it around his fingers, or smoothing it back against his head. Yue-Lung relaxed against him with his full weight - though of course he hardly weighed anything at all - his breaths coming slow and even, warm like honey against Sing's cheek.
In the four years they'd spent together, of course Sing had seen Yue-Lung loosen up a bit around him, but it was still a marvel to him each time. The guy he first knew was all stiffened shoulders and harsh lines marring that exquisite face. The Yue-Lung of before either wore a vengeful sneer or a face completely drained of color, waif-thin and ragged like some otherworldly spectre. Save for, of course, the nights his face flushed mid wine-soaked tantrum.
Really, the Yue-Lung of before had been insufferable. Who was this mellow young man beside him now, managing to curl even closer against him for each of Sing's thoughtful caresses?
"Still feeling seventy?" Sing asked into the quiet, touching his upper lip to Yue-Lung's lower one.
It took Yue-Lung a moment to understand what Sing was even saying. "No. Definitely not."
"Good."
Yue-Lung leaned in as Sing cupped his head in two big hands. Their mouths met; warmth emanated on their lips, their tongues. Sing felt his hands flutter in inky black waves as Yue-Lung trembled above him.
On the occasions they left the apartment for non gang-related activities, Sing and Yue-Lung liked to sit on a bench at the nearest park, watching the ducks and the papier-mâché sailboats drift on by. Maybe we are seventy, Yue-Lung reflected with a snort.
It was on one of these occasions - mid-afternoon, the sky a clear, cloudless blue, the breeze mild - that Sing broke the news:
"Ash and Eiji want me to come to Japan - you know, for their wedding. I thought it might be nice to stay out there for, I don't know, a month? It has been awhile, after all."
Yue-Lung stiffened at this announcement, but quickly relaxed. "Oh? They're finally tying the knot, hmm?"
"I mean, I'm going, of course," Sing powered on. The quicker he got this over with, the better. "But I wasn't sure how you'd feel about the length of time. I wanted to run it by you first." It went without saying that Yue-Lung had not been invited, nor did he mind.
"I'll miss you," he shrugged, turning his gaze to the tranquil water before him. The sun was warm on his face. "But I've had you to myself all this time; I suppose I should share. Give them my regards. If they want them." He smiled sardonically.
"I might just do that," Sing said. "Let's hope they don't find it threatening, huh?"
"The real question being, how are you going to explain us?"
"I'll figure it out somehow," Sing said, a laugh bursting out of him. "Anyway, thanks for taking it so well. I remember how it was with you and Eiji."
"That's ancient history," Yue-Lung insisted, shrugging once more.
Sing felt something within him - his heart, he might say, if he were the romantic type - grow three sizes. After all this time, Yue-Lung's easygoing attitude still came as a surprise. There was the occasional landmine, of course, but that was to be expected, given the trauma he had suffered for most of his life. Each of these quieter, gentler moments, then, was ambrosia by comparison.
As he considered this, it began to rain - first by lightly sprinkling, then in the form of burgeoning clouds and black skies. Families packed up their picnic baskets and raced for cover, tugging bemused children along behind them.
"Well, shit," Sing said, standing. Yue-Lung followed suit. "We could duck into a café, or something. If you want."
Yue-Lung nodded, squinting against the downpour. Sing noted how long his eyelashes looked, with rain glistening off them like that. This he saw for only a moment, however, as the rest of Yue-Lung was shivering, sopping wet, the rain already completely soaked through his clothes. Without hesitation, Sing tugged off his coat and draped it over Yue-Lung's lean frame. He was practically buried in it, but looked so much less miserable.
"Come on," Sing said, taking Yue-Lung's hand. "There's Wei's across the street. Let's get a table before the rush." They sprinted across the wet grass, ducking their heads down low as they dodged the occasional errant puddle.
Wei's provided a comforting ambience - warmth emanating from the central heating, the smell of cinnamon and hot tea, the gentle clinking of forks and knives. Sing and Yue-Lung tucked into a corner booth. Yue-Lung's face poked out from the coat, a pale oval in the sunny reds and yellows of the café.
"Better?" Sing asked.
Yue-Lung nodded. "I won't thaw out for hours, but yes, very much so. Aren't you cold, though?" he asked skeptically.
Sing fiddled with one of the paper menus. "Nah, I have about six layers on."
"Either way, it's kind of you." Yue-Lung smiled. "I might almost forgive you for abandoning me for the Okumura wedding."
"You don't actually think I'm doing that, do you?"
"No, Sing. Of course I don't." Yue-Lung laughed, as clear and melodious as when Sing first heard it - a soft pealing of bells. Sing, sure his heart couldn't expand any further, ordered them both tea and coffee cake, requesting the tab before Yue-Lung could think to pay for it himself.
"Sing—" Yue-Lung tried, though he was cut off by a vigorous head-shake.
"Nope. Not today. My treat." Sing stretched his arms behind his head, smiling mischievously. "Maybe it's because you look completely foolish, wrapped up in my coat like that. And a little sexy, if I'm being honest."
"You're embarrassing," Yue-Lung pouted, pulling the wool close to hide his cheeks, and the pink spots of color that always seemed to betray him.
"I refuse to take it back," Sing said, his gaze direct. For a moment Yue-Lung could see the fourteen-year-old Sing again - the headstrong, scrappy thing that needed always to reassert himself. Quickly, though, he mellowed, dissolving into quiet laughter. "It's also how nice you're being about the wedding stuff, if you really want to know."
"I thought so, but I'm not just doing it for you. I really do want to put all the trouble with Ash and Eiji behind us. Behind me."
Sing nodded. "It's okay if you're just doing it for me, for now. The other half will come eventually."
Yue-Lung reached a hand out of his shaggy sleeve and smacked Sing upside the head. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he said, his laugh loud and uninhibited this time.
Their tea arrived, in little porcelain cups with painted red roses.
"To my spoiled young lord," Sing toasted, speaking in a theatrical tone. "God rest his soul, for he's drowned himself in a wool monstrosity, never to return."
Yue-Lung laughed again, raising his own cup. He couldn't seem to stop laughing these days.
To being treated gently, tenderly, he mused. By the first person, for the first time, in what feels like forever.
And, factually speaking, it probably was. Yue-Lung was no less warm for the thought.