Fake Dating My Rival at the Awards novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Ten O'Clock

Tang runs the public dinner flawlessly while Shen says one quiet line that makes a waiter drop a plate, then takes over in the back of the van.

The restaurant had a glass front on purpose, and Tang Mo had picked the table in the window himself.

"Sit on my left," he said. "Your left cheek is the worse one."

"I've never had a worse cheek," said Shen Yichen.

"You have a worse everything on camera. Sit."

Shen sat.

Across the street, in the dark between a lamp post and a bus shelter, a man with a long lens had already found them.

Tang did not look at him.

He looked at the menu and let his smile settle into the shape the lens liked best, soft at the corners, a little amazed.

"Order for me," said Shen.

"You hate being ordered for," said Tang.

"I hate being photographed. Order."

Tang ordered six dishes in four sentences and made the waiter laugh.

Then he reached across the white cloth and straightened Shen's cuff, a small, careless, married kind of touch.

Shen's whole arm went still.

"Hands," Tang said, very quietly, still smiling. "You're holding the glass too tight."

"What do I do with them?"

"Put one on the table. Leave it near mine. Don't look at it."

Shen put one hand on the table.

Tang slid his own beside it, not touching, a finger's width apart.

On the other side of the glass, the shutter was going the whole time.

"That's it?" said Shen.

"That's all of it," said Tang. "The camera fills in the rest. People are very good at wanting something to be true."

Shen turned his head and studied him for a long moment.

"You do this every day," he said.

"Since I was nineteen."

"It looks tiring," said Shen.

"It's a living," said Tang, and found that his smile had gone a little tight, and fixed it.

The dishes came.

Tang fed Shen a dumpling with his chopsticks and laughed at the face he pulled.

He told a story about a fan who had mailed him a goldfish.

By the third course Shen had learned to lean in when Tang laughed.

By the fifth he was doing it without being told.

It should not have been so easy to watch.

When the waiter came to clear the plates, a young man with a careful haircut, he asked whether there would be dessert.

"No," said Shen.

The waiter nodded and began stacking bowls.

Shen glanced at Tang, and then he lowered his voice, but not enough.

"I'm going to take you apart in the back seat," he said.

The waiter stopped moving.

One plate slid from the stack, hit the floor, and broke into three pieces.

"Sorry," said the waiter, scarlet. "I'm so sorry, sir."

"Not at all," said Shen, perfectly calm, and handed him a napkin.

Tang had put his hand over his mouth.

His shoulders were shaking, and for the first time that night nothing about it was for a lens.

"Teacher Shen," he managed.

"Yes?" said Shen.

"You're a terrible person."

"I'm a literal one," said Shen. "Pay the bill."

They left at ten exactly, hand in hand, and the man across the street got the shot of his year.

Tang could feel the heat of Shen's palm the whole way across the pavement.

It was not a performance.

The company van waited in the basement garage with its engine off.

The driver was a middle-aged man who had learned long ago not to look into mirrors.

"Smoke if you like," said Shen to him, climbing in. "Ten minutes."

"Yes, Teacher Shen."

The door shut.

The garage was concrete, dim and quiet.

The back seat of the van was wide and cool and smelled of leather and Tang's own cologne.

Shen turned in the seat and looked at him.

"Now," he said. "Take it off. Your face."

"I'm not wearing anything," said Tang.

"The smile. Take it off."

Tang tried.

For a moment his mouth would not go slack.

The muscles of his cheeks held on as they always did, because the face came first and the man came after.

Shen put a thumb on his lower lip and pressed down gently until his mouth opened.

"There," he said.

Tang's breath came out in a shaky rush.

"That's the one. Good."

His hand slid down Tang's chest, over the thin shirt, over the buttons, and settled flat against his stomach.

Tang's muscles jumped.

"Teacher Shen," said Tang.

"Quiet. Public is yours. This isn't public."

The hand moved lower and opened his belt with two efficient tugs.

Tang's cock was already hard and pushing at the zipper, and Shen's palm cupped it through the cloth, firm, unhurried, learning the shape.

"God," Tang said, and bit down on his own lip.

"Louder and the driver comes back," said Shen.

Shen drew the zipper down, took Tang out, and closed his hand around the length of him.

It was a cool, dry, steady grip, and it began to stroke.

It was slow, with a twist at the head that made Tang's hips jerk off the seat.

"You're loud," Shen murmured. "I didn't expect that."

"I'm not," said Tang, and then a sound broke out of him that proved otherwise.

Shen's free hand came up and covered his mouth.

It was broad and warm and smelled of soap.

Tang breathed against the palm, hot and quick, and pushed his hips up into the fist.

Shen's thumb rubbed the wet slit.

Shen watched his face the whole time, and Tang could feel it.

"Look at you," said Shen, low. "Nothing on it. Nothing at all."

Tang's back arched.

"Come on," said Shen, and tightened his grip, and moved faster. "Now."

He came with a long muffled cry into Shen's palm.

He spilled over Shen's knuckles and onto his own stomach, shaking until the last pulse was gone.

Shen did not let go until it was over.

Tang lay back against the leather with his eyes shut and his hair stuck to his forehead.

He heard the rustle of Shen's cuff, and a tissue, and then the soft sound of his own belt being fastened for him.

"Your turn?" said Tang hoarsely, opening his eyes.

He reached out, and found Shen's trousers tight and hot, and Shen caught his wrist.

"Not tonight."

"You're hard," said Tang.

"Yes," said Shen.

"So let me."

"Not tonight," said Shen again, and he said it kindly, which was worse.

He took out his phone and sent the driver a single word.

Tang sat up slowly, buttoning his shirt with fingers that did not work well, and looked at the man beside him.

Shen was composed.

His collar was straight.

There was not a hair out of place.

Only his ears were red, and he was looking out of the window at the concrete pillar.

"You didn't perform that," said Shen.

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