My Straight Best Friend Thinks It's Bro Stuff novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Anything

At dawn on the pool deck Fu holds Tang to his word and asks him to move into a flat behind the South Gate; a smiling teammate reads Fu's notebook, and Tang says bros can share the one bed.

At ten to six the Old Natatorium smelled of chlorine and wet concrete, and Fu Lingchen was already at the taping table.

Tang saw him from the door and stopped walking.

Fu sat with a steel thermos at his elbow, his green notebook open, and his sleeves rolled to the elbow.

He had been there a while.

The kickboards were stacked and the ice buckets were filled.

Tang crossed the deck in his team slides, hoarse and slightly late, and stood in front of the table with his hands in his hoodie.

"Lingchen. Last night."

"Drink this first," said Fu, and held out the thermos.

It was hot barley tea with honey.

Tang drank half of it and felt his throat open up.

"I'm sorry if it was too much," he said. "I got loud. I do that. Say the word and I'll apologise to the whole team."

"You weren't too much."

"You walked out."

"I had a class," said Fu.

He had no class on Monday evenings.

Tang knew his timetable better than his own, but Fu's face did not invite an argument, so he let it go.

"Morning, lovebirds," said a warm voice behind him. "Joking, joking."

Cen Mingyu came down the deck with a towel on his shoulder and a smile on his round face.

He stopped at the taping table and picked up Fu's green notebook without asking.

He leafed through it for a moment, and then he put it down, open to the page it had been on.

"Nice handwriting, Doc," said Cen. "Wow, that speech last night, Tang. I almost cried."

"Thanks," said Tang, who took compliments at face value.

"It must be nice, honestly. Having someone who'll do anything."

"It is," said Fu, without looking up.

"Anything is a big word."

"So is nothing," said Fu pleasantly, and capped his pen.

Cen laughed and let it pass.

On the back of his left hand, in black marker, he had written his lane number and a heat number.

He did it before every race, a habit from junior meets, and the ink always ran after the first length.

Then he went off down the deck to stretch, whistling.

Tang watched him go.

"He's a good guy," he told Fu. "He's just intense."

Fu said nothing at all.

He took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose and put them on again.

Then he closed the notebook and looked up.

"Last night you said anything."

"I did," said Tang.

"Does it still count?" asked Fu.

Tang put the thermos down.

He felt oddly hopeful, which made no sense, and he told himself to stop.

"Name it," he said. "I mean it. Name it, Chen."

"Move out of Building 9," said Fu.

Tang blinked.

"There's a flat behind the South Gate, on Phoenix Lane," said Fu. "Fourth floor, two bedrooms, a working heater. The rent is paid through June."

Tang stared. "You rented a flat."

"Your fevers come from the damp and the overtraining," said Fu. "You've had three this term."

"The head of sports medicine says one more and he'll tell Coach to pull you from the national roster."

"He wouldn't."

"He would," said Fu, "and he'd be right."

Tang stared at him.

All night he had lain in a damp bunk and imagined what Fu might ask.

He had imagined a kidney, or a year of Tang's laundry, or a fight with Cen.

He had not imagined this, which was only a heater and a key.

And a very careful, very quiet voice.

"That's it?" said Tang. "That's the big ask?"

"That's the ask."

"I thought you'd want a kidney."

"I'll hold on to that for later," said Fu.

Tang started to laugh.

The laugh turned into a cough, and Fu handed him the barley tea again.

"Done," said Tang, when he could talk. "Obviously done. Bro stuff. I'll bring my duvet."

Whistle blasts echoed across the pool.

Coach came down from the office with his clipboard and his stopwatch and the expression of a man who had slept four hours.

"Quiet," he said. "Listen up. The national roster is posted on the first of December."

The team went still.

"The university gets one slot in the men's 200 freestyle and one graduate-school recommendation for an athlete. One. The faster man gets both."

His eyes went to Tang, and then, briefly, to Cen.

"Nobody gets a gift," said Coach. "Warm up."

Cen lifted a hand and smiled.

Tang waved back.

When the team had scattered, Fu opened the notebook and wrote something short, and Tang pretended not to see.

Then Fu took a key out of his pocket and held it out on his palm.

It was a plain brass key on a red cord.

Tang reached for it, and Fu's fingers closed over his, key and all.

The hand stayed there a moment longer than a key needed.

It was warm, and dry, and steady, and Tang looked down at it for a long moment.

"Fourth floor," he said. "There's one bed."

"One bed?"

"The second room is for the physio table. I'll take the sofa."

"Don't be dumb," said Tang, immediately, taking the key. "It's a big bed, I bet. Bros share."

Fu looked at him for a moment.

"Okay," he said.

Tang had heard that okay before, three years ago, in exactly that voice.

He hadn't liked it then either, and he could not have said why.

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