As he stared at the man to ensure he wasn’t breathing, he called, “Jinzhao, talk to me—can you hear me?”
Jinzhao grunted from a corner. They’d tied Jinzhao to a wooden chair. His shirt was ripped, his chest mottled. He struggled to lift his head, eyes on Tinseng. Tinseng felt the weight of them, Jinzhao’s anger and relief under his bruised ego.
“He knew,” Jinzhao told him, as if Tinseng cared about Grodescu right now. “Knew the buyer in Villefranche was false. He never had her papers on him and planned to kill whoever arrived at the meeting. When we approached him, he put it together. He strung us along to get me closer.”
“That’s all very interesting, Jinzhao, but how can you think of this right now? You know, I have a few things to say to you.”
Part of him wanted to mention what Jinzhao told Yukying about his parents, but why invite ghosts? This moment was for them alone. Satisfied the room was empty, he walked over to the chair and crouched down in front of Jinzhao.
“The first thing is you can’t ever do that to me again. I don’t want to know who I am without you. Maybe you’re strong enough to survive without me; maybe that’s why you thought I could too. But I can’t. I’m telling you right now. Or I won’t. It’s the same thing. Do you hear me?” Tinseng whispered, a hand under Jinzhao’s jaw to help him hold up his head. “You can’t deny me this. I demand it, Jinzhao—promise me.”
Slowly, Jinzhao wet his lips. His breath wheezed through him. “Promise.”
“Okay. Okay.” He kissed Jinzhao then, hard and demanding. The kiss seared life back into Tinseng’s fear-cold heart and gave him the courage to pull back and say, “The second thing is I love you. I’m composed of Eros and dust and show an affirming flame. Every mote of me is yours. Do you believe me?”
“Every mote,” Jinzhao repeated, still stunned. “Yes. Yes, I—”
“Live with me,” Tinseng continued instead of letting him say it back. “Come live with me. Will you?”
Instead of answering, Jinzhao surged forward to kiss him again, chair rocking underneath him. For long moments the basement held still in deference to the two bodies hidden in the dark.
“I haven’t even untied you,” Tinseng said with a laugh when he finally pulled away. “You should have said.”
“When?” Jinzhao asked archly. Tinseng cackled.
“Shouldn’t you be unafraid to interrupt my speeches? Be resolute, fear no sacrifice, and surmount every difficulty to win victory, isn’t that how it goes? Hmm,” he looked at the ropes around Jinzhao’s wrists and reconsidered undoing them himself. “Hold on, Cheuk-Kwan is here too. I want him to do this. Sit pretty, okay?”
He crossed the room to the cellar door and opened it to find Cheuk-Kwan pointing the gun unsteadily down the stairwell.
“Very intimidating,” Tinseng commented as his brother followed him down.
“Shut up. How is he?”
“You shouldn’t have come,” Jinzhao had the audacity to say as Cheuk-Kwan crouched to check how they’d tied him to the chair.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Cheuk-Kwan said as Tinseng added, “What did you think we would do? Sail on to Villefranche and drink mai tais with fucking Laurence, wishing you the best on your journey?”
Cheuk-Kwan snorted. “Hand me that knife, A-Seng.” He pointed to the knife sticking out of the man on the floor. Tinseng wiped the knife on the dead man’s shirt then handed it to Cheuk-Kwan, who cut Jinzhao free. The rope pulled skin and hair as it untied; the wounds had started to clot around the fiber. Tinseng sucked in his breath as Cheuk-Kwan carefully peeled away the ropes to reveal raw, bloody wrists.
“Burns from pulling,” Cheuk-Kwan diagnosed. “You kept trying to escape, didn’t you? Stubborn bastard,” he muttered, grudgingly respectful as he helped Tinseng pull Jinzhao out of the chair.
“Yep, stubborn bastard, that’s him,” Tinseng said, his outlook much better now that he could feel Jinzhao’s living, breathing body against his. Jinzhao was alive, he wanted to live with him, he’d heard Tinseng’s confession. They were both here! Alive! Tinseng almost laughed, and his shaking made Jinzhao look over, as though he could just sense anytime Tinseng wanted to indulge an inappropriate reaction. Instead of the glare he’d expected, Jinzhao’s gaze was soft as the summer breeze.
Oh no, Tinseng thought, but there is Heaven—it knows me!
His joviality died as they stopped at the threshold of the cellar door. Had the neighbors called the police by now? Surely they had, after the sound of gunshots. The stairs up were dark and led into an unknown night. Grodescu was still out there, as were the people he’d promised the list to. Tinseng shifted Jinzhao’s weight to keep a steady hand on his gun. Sensing the shift, Cheuk-Kwan pulled Jinzhao over to lean fully against him. Tinseng looked over to find his brother giving him a narrow-eyed look.
“Let me take him,” Cheuk-Kwan said.
“I didn’t want you to see that.”
“You think I haven’t seen worse?”
“It’s different. This is different from your doctor’s office.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing for three years? There are riots in Hong Kong too, Wu Tinseng, and the only reason I’m not at the front is because I’m a doctor. They take the worst cases to me. I knew what I was getting into here. I know how to carry an injured comrade. You go ahead. Make sure it’s clear.”
“But—”
“You might be James Bond now, but you’re still shit at strategy. Stop being emotional and go. I’ve got him.”
“He’s right,” Jinzhao rasped. “Go.”
“Jinzhao.” Tinseng cradled his face in his hands as gently as he knew. Jinzhao’s pupils were two different sizes. Blood pooled in one of his eyes and his nose bent unnaturally. They’d have to reset it. Dried blood matted a spot above his ear, near the divot where Tinseng’s thumb could perfectly fit. They’d pulled out a chunk of hair; nothing professional in that, just hate. Jinzhao had seen the worst of it down here. Here in this basement and dozens like it where Tinseng had lived and had never wanted anyone to go; he had lost so much of himself in places like this, and he’d gotten it wrong, so wrong. Every move he’d tried to make had been anticipated. Grodescu had been ahead of them the whole time. What if he was waiting above? What if—
“Tinseng.”
He resurfaced at the sound of his name.
“Yeah.” It sounded tired. He was tired.
“Tinseng.” His name again, more forceful. He raised his eyes and there he was—Jinzhao, his Jinzhao, who underneath it all seemed unchanged and met his gaze with steel.
“Get us home,” Jinzhao said.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
