Work Text:
The world is hard and cold.
The bird knows this better than anything else.
Gilded steel does not bend no matter how much feather and wing thrash against it. The sunlight shines on dusty wood, close enough to see but not to feel. When the rain comes, the world is damp and hollow.
The fool, the great lumbering thing who keeps the bird under thumb, makes a mistake. In the dark shadow of storm clouds it does not notice the loose latch.
Wings stretching, sense tensed, the bird would rather die than let this opportunity slip from its claws.
Only a fool would do otherwise.
The warped cry of the fool echoes as the bird slips into the foggy dawn.
This is where the bird was always meant to be. Long dead instinct curls up its throat as it lands on an outstretched tree branch. The wind sings between the leaves, the promise of sunlight's touch so tantalizingly close. Clouds part as the black sky begins to alight with color.
Movement below. The flicker of hunger. The bird dives, snatching the worm from the freshly unturned earth.
The worm yells as it is unmade between the bird's beak, worm-tongue meaning nothing. Then:
“Listen,” The worm says urgently, this time in the common language of all beasts. The desperation is all that makes the bird pause, a familiar echo ringing in its stomach. “Please. I know what you want. I know there’s nothing I can do. I understand—but please, please, before you do it, let me see the sun fully risen. That’s all I want.”
The bird's voice hums in reply, memories of a golden cage lingering.
“You will not slip back into the earth?”
“No,” The worm promises, “I won’t! Please let me see the sun!”
“....very well,” The bird says.
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” The worm sounds so relieved as it starts to wriggle from the bird's mouth. Over the tongue, the slick body twitching, it itches and-
The bird coughs and, worse yet, swallows from reflex.
Then the worm is gone.
The bird knows that it is its place to consume the worm. Yet the kinship, the desire to only feel the warmth of sunlight, makes the meal feel sour in the bird's gut.
So consumed by this guilt, the bird does not notice the fool and its net until it is already around him.
And so, in the either, neither bird nor worm got what they truly wanted.
Mobei Jun dreams of stale bird seed and dust, as he always does when he sleeps too deeply.
Confusion washes over him as he stares, unseeing, at his bedroom ceiling. Dawn dances through high rise windows, far too many to feel anything but exposed, but any less would make him look cheap. Or so father had claimed, when he had chosen the space for him to live. Mobei is put to mind of a bird cage when he stares out over the city.
His morning routine is spent making himself look slick and sharp. A human knife meant to cleave those would oppose him in two. Just as he had been taught, as he knew was proper.
At breakfast, his phone lights up with his father's name-
"You'll start at the company today. Be there in an hour."
The phone line dies. Mobei Jun stares at his reflection in the electronic glass, his own frown cutting.
Orders are orders.
So he goes.
The work is not hard. The peons move around him like frightened mice, cowering when they bring paperwork to his personal corner office; cleared out from a man who had worked here diligently for twenty five years, rumors said, just because the AC worked a bit better and the view was a bit nicer. Mobei Jun does not think of it as he pours over numbers and figures and the complicated jargon that had been beaten into his skull.
He is left alone in his new cage and that is preferred.
The peons are unimportant. Mobei Jun pays them no mind and commits no names or faces to memory. None of them can impact his place here in any way that matters. He is content to allow the sun to set as he sits, back straight, and reads line after line after line after line after line after line after line after line of contracts and requests and-
One gives him pause.
The joint contract with Luo Industries is important. No one else seemed to know it was important, which was why it had been slipped onto Mobei Jun's desk. He understood that the peons, afraid of a history of incompetence from those in his specific position, had been giving him the management equivalent of busy work. If he fucked something that mattered up, it would cascade down the line like tar.
Briefly he wonders if this was some test from father. That is quickly brushed off; it's not as if the man paid him more attention than he needed. This must have just slipped under another radar.
But. But but but. This is important, and it will cascade if he fucks it up, and Mobei Jun does not actually want to fuck it up.
In order to not fuck it up, Mobei Jun needs to ask one of the peons on the project about a clause in the contract. Standing up, Mobei Jun turns and happens to glance out the office's too-many windows and-
It is dark.
Mobei Jun frowns as he stares out at the sleeping cityscape. He frowns as he glances back at his laptop, the cursor blinking accusingly at him. He frowns at the dim lights and dull shine off the golden fixtures in his office.
A sound catches in his ear, then. Even through the padded door there is a loud, roaring, crashing snarl of a noise. It gives him pause. Mobei Jun peers from the curtained window, an inside one, to look out at the dark maze of cubicles.
The light of one distant break room, the one with a dying bulb, shine like a guiding beacon. It is back enough, low ranked enough, that Mobei Jun is almost unfamiliar with this particular labyrinth of desks. The thin and short walls here only provide the illusion of privacy. Soon enough, Mobei Jun stands over a sleeping man.
He looks strangely soft. Exhausted, clearly, his cheek cushioned against his arm. The harsh glare of fluorescents show off the dark bags under his eyes, makes him look pasty and washed out and greasy. His hair, which had possibly looked passable earlier in the day, is a frizzy mess. A cup of some cheap sort of noodle is clutched loosely in hand, the water inside thin and unappealing. The loud, horrible noise from earlier slips from the man's mouth. Snoring.
Mobei Jun does not know his name. Does not recognize him. Yet if he is in this office he is under him, so he might know something. If he doesn't, Mobei Jun can always take out his frustration by writing him up for sleeping on the clock.
"You." Mobei Jun says, loud. It keeps him from narrowly calling the man "Peon" as had almost slipped from his tongue.
The man jerks awake with an inelegant snort. Bleary brown eyes take in Mobei Jun for all of two seconds before he shrieks and thrusts out the cup of noodles in some sort of.. offering? Brown broth sloshes over the lip and splatters on the break room table.
This has never happened before. Mobei Jun is used to the peons cowering like wriggling worms, but not to the point of screaming like they had seen a ghost. He keeps his face neutral and pretends, for both of them, it hadn't happened.
"Do you know the subsidiary on Article T of the Luo Project?" He asks, expecting nothing.
The man, even while only half aware, rattles off an answer quickly and with surprising sounding accuracy. Mobei Jun will have to double check when he's back in his office but it sounds passable. He nods and then turns to do just that.
When Mobei Jun finds that it was correct, he sits and ponders on the man for a few moments.
Useful. Perhaps he would allow this infarction to slide.
They start see each other more after that. It is unintended. The man works as if he has no home life, late nights spent huddled over computer screens. It is understandable for Mobei Jun to work like he does, as this place is all he has. They do not always speak, and often then it is simply quiet questions over coffee and bad noodles about the various projects their department oversees.
As the deadline approaches, they stay later and later. Mobei Jun stays pristine and unflappable because he has to, his only allowance of weakness to unwind his hair in the late hours and drink so much coffee it must run in his veins.
He learns the peon's name: Shang Qinghua. Someone so lowly that he should not even be on Mobei Jun's radar, let alone allowed to spend time in his space in what might count as companionable silence. They do not speak during normal office hours, the bustle of paperwork and red tape and sniveling middle managers keeping him busy. Still, when he leaves his office, his eyes always drift to where he knows a familiar head of brown hair to linger.
Mobei Jun stands alone in the break room a few nights later. His coffee is still brewing, a blend he brought from home and kept in his office. Personal, more expensive than anyone else here could afford. It smells deep and rich as it brews.
Shang Qinghua is absent.
That shouldn't prickle at him as much as it does. Mobei Jun had seen the man earlier, scurrying like a rat with an armload of old account books. They've been staying later and later, the promise of sunlight almost on the horizon when they leave. Agitation has him drumming his nails on the bleached white counter, a habit he thought he'd broken long ago.
Mobei Jun finds Shang Qinghua curled up under his desk, head lolled and snoring. Softly, for once. Not the roar of a cornered animal. The pale line of his throat peaks out of his collar, soft and inviting. Mobei Jun finds his teeth itching when he stares at it.
Instead of biting down, he stands in the break room and glares at the coffee machine as he brews another cup.
It's left within Shang Qinghau's reach. Mobei Jun retires to his office and tries to focus on reports that need his signature. The lines all run together, the only thing plaguing his mind being Qinghua Qinghua Qinghua.
A knock on his door. Annoying, as he leaves it open at night in case Shang Qinghua needs something from him. He doesn't understand why the man hasn't figured that out.
“What is it,” He huffs, that agitation from before prickling. At Shang Qinghua, at himself for wanting to sink his teeth into him.
“You left your coffee on my desk,” Shang Qinghua scuttles forward, the carefully brewed cup of coffee clutched in both hands like a lifeline. It's offered, as if Mobei Jun is expected to take it. He gives a quick glance at his own half empty cup and has to fight down the sudden urge to devour the man in front of him.
“It’s for you,” Is what he's finally able to force from between his lips, after what feels like an eternity.
“O-Oh, thank you,” Shang Qinghua says. "Um."
The man pulls the coffee closer to his chest, looking lost and confused. Mobei Jun keeps staring at him, waiting to see what he will do, wondering why something as simple as a cup of coffee has thrown the mousy worker through such a loop.
"I'm going to go drink this now!!!" Shang Qinghua exclaims, loud enough to startle. Manic, almost. "Right now! Wow, I'm so excited, thank you so much again!! I'll just close the door behind me now! Okay, bye!"
Mobei Jun doesn't have the chance to tell Shang Qinghua to not do that, since he flees like his life is on the line. He watches him go and gets the faintest stir of a long repressed memory. The flapping of wings. The joy of freedom. The taste of betrayal.
When he finds Shang Qinghua asleep once more, Mobei Jun leaves him more coffee.
A few nights later, Mobei Jun finds Shang Qinghua in the break room as per usual. The man is bent in half, face pinched, rubbing his waist. The urge to feast rears up as business slacks pulled taunt over plush cheeks is too much to ignore. Instead, he licks his dry lips and asks:
“What’s wrong?”
“I fell asleep at my desk again and had a weird dream. But mostly it was the falling asleep at my desk part, probably.” Shang Qinghua mumbles, seeming more drained that usual. He hadn't even noticed that the kettle is boiling.
“You work too late,” Mobei Jun replies, though it irks him. Shang Qinghua should rest. Selfishly, Mobei Jun wants him here.
“So do you,” Is what Mobei Jun gets back. It makes him want to grab the other and shake sense into him.
“It is my responsibility,” Mobei Jun continues, but then stops. Because Shang Qinghua is right there, smelling like printer paper and ink, creasing his loafers to as he pushes himself to his tiptoes to close the distance between-
Oh.
Shang Qinghua's mouth is soft and plush and hot against Mobei Jun's.
Sweet sounds spill from Shang Qinghua, Mobei Jun curling a hand around his waist to drag him closer. Something clicks into place, then, almost unsettling. Mobei Jun wants to snap this man in two and put him back together, wants to hide him away, can taste freedom on his tongue.
They don't talk much during the day, but Shang Qinghua is even more like a flame after. Mobei Jun is just the moth unable to reach him, can only fixate on the warmth and light and crave.
But Shang Qinghua leaves him bereft. Mobei Jun thinks he might hate him, for giving him a crumb of what he never knew he wanted, only to snatch it away. Shang Qinghua abandons the their nightly vigil and stays home. It makes Mobei Jun feel unmoored, the glass of his office feeling once more like a gilded cage.
When Mobei Jun has to dump out cold coffee, too much for him alone, that bitter betrayal from his dreams sinks into his stomach.
With Shang Qinghua gone, the dreams seem to plague him. Every night, wings rustling, a net descending, a worm dissolving in his stomach. One day Mobei Jun wakes up and he knows, and he thinks that maybe he deserves this. An eye for an eye. Betrayal for betrayal. Hunger for hunger.
Then, as if he had never vanished at all, Shang Qinghua is back.
It's electric. How he leans into Mobei Jun's touch, kisses him in fleeting pecks, allows hands to wander. Noises have no chance to echo in the empty office since Mobei Jun greedily swallows them all.
Mobei Jun still has to dump cold, expensive coffee down the sink. This time, it is because they don't need as much of it. The soft breaths and touching and pressing of lips more potent than any caffeine could ever be.
Mobei Jun forgets his dream, his revelation, in the thrill. It is only one night, when he suddenly receives an email from his father, that he remembers. He stares at the three simple lines and can't focus. The gilded cage locks. Mobei Jun lays his head down to process and, for the first time in his life, exhaustion catches up to his racing mind. It makes him doze.
The flap of wings. The itch in the back of his throat. Shame. The snap of a net. Emptiness.
Mobei Jun snaps awake. The light in his office windows tells him it's predawn. His office feels stifling, claustrophobic. An urgency he doesn't understand has him shoot to his feet, brush his hair back and look for any escape. The door, still cracked for Shang Qinghua, presents his opening.
Mobei Jun does not know why his feet take him to the eastern conference hall. Maybe because it is large, open, spacious. Daybreak will feel more real than in his office, even if it's still with the degree of separation that glass brings. He's almost surprised to find Shang Qinghua there.
The man looks wild, desperate. Mobei Jun remembers. He leans against the door after he closes it and watches the man, breath stolen.
Shang Qinghua turns.
“You!” Shang Qinghua says. “You!!” He looks like he wants to say more, but the words never come.
“Me,” Mobei says. Because he understands, even if it feels insane. He knows exactly what this is, what they are. Were. Shang Qinghua looks beautiful in the rising sunlight, his features rosy and pink instead of washed out by the overhead lighting.
“YOU!” Shang Qinghua says, “You…You ate me!”
Ah. So he had realized, too.
“Well?” Shang Qinghua demands.
The urge comes back, stronger than it ever has been before. To take the man before him and swallow.
“No,” Mobei Jun says. “I have not.”
“What—we both know—you can’t deny it! You know what I meant! You know!”
“That was not me,” Mobei says. “That was not Mobei.”
Mobei Jun strides forward, then. Shang Qinghua trembles in place then takes a wary step back.
“What are you doing,” Shang Qinghua says. Mobei Jun doesn't reply. He only swoops in so he can finish backing the other against the long table.
Mobei Jun places a hand, palm flat, on either side of him. Caging in him. Mobei Jun looms and stares down at him.
“W-What is this,” Shang Qinghua says.
Mobei Jun's mind lingers on betrayal, on nets, on wing beats. Shang Qinghua's face is stark with confusion and panic but not fear. A creature who has accepted its face, regardless of the outcome. His hair is a wild mess and his shirt had come loose. Mobei Jun finds he wants to ruck it up, expose him to the cool air, to sink his teeth into every inch of soft skin and make him scream.
“I have to go home,” Shang Qinghua abruptly says.
“Oh?” Mobei Jun says. What he wants is so close. Shang Qinghua can't escape this anymore than a worm can escape from a bird. “But I haven’t eaten you yet.”
“Again?” Shang Qinghau's voice is wavering. He stabs the air with a finger, indignant. Cute goes through Mobei Jun's mind. “I knew it!”
“You are not a liar,” Mobei agrees. “Though your words are not exactly true yet.”
He sets one of his broad hands on Shang Qinghua's chest and pushes.
Shang Qinghua, caught off guard, goes. His back thumps against the table but Mobei Jun is careful to catch his head before it can thump against the hard surface. Shang Qinghua's hair is soft under his fingers.
“Oh,” Shang Qinghua says, as if his brain has shut off. He looks dazed and wide eyed, vulnerable and delicious under him. Mobei Jun leans forward, wanting to crush him under him. “Thanks.”
“Mm,” Says Mobei Jun, his eyes flicking down to his real prize as he leans in.
Shang Qinghua wriggles under him, making the process of unclasping the man's belt harder than it should be. After too much effort, the satisfying drag of a zipper.
Mobei Jun wraps his hand around an unfamiliar dick.
“Qinghua?” Mobei Jun asks, when Shang Qinghua's brain seems to have melted out of his ears. It is one allowance. One assurance that this is...
“Y-Yes.” Is given, ravished already. Mobei Jun glances up from his precarious spot and hums. Shang Qinghua's skin is flushed red, desperation coloring his voice. It's all the affirmation he needs.
His lips quirk up, just barely. His chest feels warm.
“I’m going to eat you now.”
“Oh god, yes,” Shang Qinghua gasps, and then Mobei Jun swallows him whole.
The noises that come from above are so sweet, Mobei Jun wants to live in them forever. Shang Qinghua cries for him, pleads for him, and the old shame is slowly washed away.
“So,” Mobei murmurs after, wiping his mouth carefully. “Would you like to…eat me?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Shang Qinghua says, and guides Mobei Jun's cock into his hungry body, takes him all and rips his shirt demanding more, more, more.
When the first sliver of sunlight properly crests the horizon, Mobei Jun is too busy to notice. They greet the sun together once more, one inside the other yet again, limbs so tightly entangled they may as well be one once more.