#(please get done with rennovations)

[sodarlo]

thanksgiving except it’s franksgiving and you either need to star every sentence with “to be Frank;”, gift someone named Frank (first or last, fictional works too) a token of your worship and appreciation, or send a letter to castle Frankenstein begging to be let in whilst they’re renovating to see if you can find frankenstien’s monster.

oh and Frank Sinatra is the day’s themesong

[agapaic]

tianshan drabble. 💞 on behalf of an anonymous donation to the BLMUK organisation, this was created (with permission) for Eylül @eed752. if you would like to donate to an organisation supporting black lives in return for a drabble, please see here for more information. 🌸

tags: chef!guan shan, media exec! he tian, reality TV. tw: non-consensual kissing

///

‘I don’t need your fuckin’ help,’ Guan Shan says, teeth gritted. ‘I didn’t ask for it.’

On the other side of the resaurant’s foyer, Zhengxi lowers the camera. He’s familiar with Guan Shan’s belligerence, and he knows when to stop rolling without waiting for anyone’s call. He turns to He Tian, who’s already making his way over to Guan Shan while he rolls up the cuffs on his shirt sleeves. His smile is tight.

‘Do you want to say that off camera, hm?’ he says quietly, when he’s only a few feet away. There’s something sharp beneath his words that makes Guan Shan’s spine straighten. ‘Stop being a prima donna because you don’t want to follow my suggestions. You and I both know you couldn’t do this without the show.’

Guan Shan looks away. This. His father’s old restaurant had been an empty husk until he bought it, the inside like walking into a warzone. There was graffitti on the walls, smashed crockery covering the floor, burst pipes in the bathrooms and kitchen, some scene from an apocalypse movie. 

The PAP had done nothing with it since they seized the property fifteen years ago; when it came to auction, Guan Shan bought it without thinking, emptying the savings he’d been stockpiling from his job as a waiter. He’d planned to give half to his mom and pay off her mortgage.

He doesn’t have the money to rennovate now, or to repair. He barely has the strength not to revisit the memory of the raid each time he walks through the restaurant doors, bile burning his throat, nausea rolling through him as if he’s at sea. Sometimes, it feels like it, the earth unsteady beneath his feet, his surroundings beginning to spin, a high-pitched ringing starting to keen in his ears—

‘Hey,’ He Tian says, brows drawn in. ‘Hey, did you hear me?’

Guan Shan mumbles something, and his expression must throw He Tian enough because he calls out for a break in the shooting. The crew lower their cameras and mic booms—Take five! someone shouts—and a caterers rolls out a trolley with cans of soft drinks and snacks. 

Guan Shan doesn’t go to it; nor does he collapse into the fold-up chair that has his name printed across the back. Instead, He Tian grips him by the elbow and steers him, not ungently, out of the main restaurant and towards the kitchen.

It’s a building site still, most everything covered in sheets of plastic and a dusty layer of concrete residue. They’ll start filming this part of the show in a couple of weeks, and use a demo kitchen for now while they work on the recipes for the menu. It’s the nature of the show—Overhaul, it’s called, building someone’s business quite literally from the ground up. 

You couldn’t do this without the show, He Tian had said. He’s right. Guan Shan couldn’t have afforded anything on the scale that He Tian is giving him. That’s the whole point of this fucking venture. The furniture, the esteemed clientelle, a Shanghai-based HR agency to find the staff. Some chef from SHIC will help him with the menu, and his contract promises the review of a Black Pearl critic who will visit a year after opening. The restaurant will be a success, by default of He Tian’s purview. He’ll allow nothing else to damage his name.

When the kitchen doors swing to a close behind them, He Tian releases Guan Shan and leans against an old counter with his arms folded. He’s frowning. In here, with the dust and the absence of windows, Guan Shan finds it difficult to breathe. He rubs at his chest, easing a pressure that refuses to dissipate. He’s trying to imagine himself running this place one day, cooking in here, where his father used to—and he fails. 

‘You asked for my help,’ says He Tian, slowly. ‘You went to Jian Yi, who came to me. You signed the contract. You agreed to this.’

‘I know what I fuckin’ agreed to,’ Guan Shan mutters.

He Tian is unimpressed, and Guan Shan realises he hasn’t brought him away from the eyes of the crew because he pities him. He’s just making an attempt not to air any dirty laundry. He’s being professional. 

He says, ‘Then you can stop with the chip on your shoulder and stop being a bitch to the rest of the crew. They’re not your enemy. Neither am I.’

‘I’m not—’

‘If you want sympathy, then play it up. Start crying. I don’t give a damn—the audience will love it.’ He Tian stares at him flatly. ‘Maybe at the end we can have a father-son reunion—’

‘Don’t you fuckin’ dare,’ Guan Shan growls. The thought sickens him. Already, he knows that his father might see this in the papers, or have access to the show on the prison’s communal TV’s. Guan Shan hasn’t told him. He hasn’t visited in over a year. By the time the show airs, He Tian’s name will be emblazoned in lights; it wasn’t written in the contract, but the restaurant will become He Tian’s has much as it has ever belonged to the Mos. 

‘You’re in the entertainment business, Mo Guan Shan,’ He Tian reminds him coldly. ‘You should take what you can get and don’t stop.’

‘Is that what you’ve done?’ Guan Shan sneers.

‘Isn’t it obvious? Look at me.’

Guan Shan is looking. He’s spent two months looking, and he could spend even longer doing so, if only for the fact that he doesn’t want to. His preocuppation with the looks of a pretentious media executive worth millions is really fucking unfortunate. He hates himself for it. 

Granted, sometimes things are good. Sometimes they joke with each other and have moments off-camera that make Guan Shan’s spine tingle. Sometimes he thinks He Tian’s hand touches him when it shouldn’t, and sometimes Guan Shan’s eyes linger longer when they shouldn’t, too. There have been no sordid, insidious rumours staining He Tian’s name as with other media execs in the industry, but that means nothing. He Tian has the money and charm to keep it quiet. Probably, He Tian plays this game with all his entreupeneurs. Probably, Guan Shan is being fucking stupid. He hates himself for that, too.

‘I don’t wanna be like you,’ Guan Shan tells him eventually. ‘You look at people like they’re ratings.’

‘Spare me,’ He Tian remarks dryly. ‘If you had enough of a moral backbone you wouldn’t be using me at all for this. You would’ve worked and worked until you had what it took to make this place work.’ He smiles, almost tenderly. ‘And even then it wouldn’t be enough.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘No, fuck you, Mo Guan Shan. You’re going to be whatever the camera makes tries to make you.’

‘You mean what you make—’

‘Shut up. Do you want to be the arrogant, angry chef with an overruling passion for food? The kid from a broken home with too-high dreams of running a business? Is this all some grand venture to repair your paternal relationship? Or maybe something else entirely. You have the opportunity of a life time. If I were you, I’d think about taking it.’

Guan Shan opens his mouth to argue, and He Tian swears—in frustration, in anger, in bemused disbelief that Guan Shan still won’t back down from the fight when he knows he’s lost. The outcome was pre-determined, and Guan Shan’s still wincing at new bruises and spitting blood onto the tarpaulin of the derelict kitchen. 

He can only stare as He Tian marches forward, and he only thinks to take a step back when He Tian is a few feet from him— In front of him now—  Grabbing his shoulders with two hands—

He Tian’s kissing him. 

He Tian doesn’t wait for Guan Shan’s too-slow reaction. He takes what he wants, pillaging the intimacy, tongue forcing itself between Guan Shan’s lips—and lets him go. Immediately after, He Tian staggers back slightly, narrowly avoiding the fist that swings in his direction. 

Guan Shan heaves. He doesn’t have the energy to try a second time. ‘You—’

‘There,’ He Tian says thickly. ‘File for harrassment. Put my name down in the mud and rebuild yourself from the ashes.’

‘You fuckin’... You...’ Words fail him. His head is reeling.

He Tian lifts his hand as if to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, but his fingertips linger on his lips. His face is slightly flushed. 

‘I’m giving you power over me.’ 

He says it like an apology.

‘I’d never win,’ Guan Shan chokes out. ‘Me against you in court? I’m nothin’.’

‘I’d agree with your story. If nothing else, I’ll pay out a settlement fee and you can do this whole thing yourself.’

Guan Shan shakes his head. His mouth feels bruised. The worst part is that he’d imagined this before. Different. Better. He’d wanted it. No, the worst part is that he wants it still.

‘Still dirty money,’ he whispers.

‘It doesn’t have to be,’ says He Tian. Guan Shan realises he sounds a little shocked—as if he hadn’t had control over his actions. As if he hadn’t expected its consequences. Guan Shan realises: He Tian hadn’t done this with the others. ‘Make your choice, Mo Guan Shan. You can quit, you can file a claim—or we can carry on and get this thing finished.’

‘Shit,’ Guan Shan breathes, dragging a shaking hand over his face. ‘How the fuck am I gonna just... carry on after you...’

He looks to He Tian, expecting some cool answer, something stemmed from exploitative experience, but He Tian only grimaces and says, ‘The same way I’ll have to.’

///

🌸 in the footsteps of @nightfayre’s wonderful initiative, i’m filling any drabble requests following a donation to causes in support of black lives. please read here if you would like more information! ✨

[handymanremodeling8151]

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[interior-design-22]

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[apollocontracting]

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