Měi Nán followed Tòumíng into the bedroom, still grinning but his voice taking on a slightly more conciliatory tone. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry for looking at your goon material without permission. That was invasive. Privacy violation. My bad."
"You don't sound sorry."
"I'm half sorry. The other half is still finding it hilarious." Měi Nán sat on the edge of the bed. "But seriously, everyone goons. Nobody actually cares. It's normal. Healthy, even. You're exploring your sexuality, figuring out what you like. That's good!"
Tòumíng kept his face buried in the pillow, not responding.
"And honestly?" Měi Nán continued. "I'm surprised most of it was softcore. Like, fluff porn. Romantic setups. The gentle stuff. I was expecting way worse. At least you're not into CNC or weird power dynamics or—"
"What's CNC?" Tòumíng's voice was muffled by the pillow.
"Consensual non-consent. Don't Google it. The point is, your taste is pretty vanilla. Sweet, even. You like romance with your porn. That's actually kind of endearing."
Tòumíng finally sat up, his face still red but the acute embarrassment fading to something more manageable. "Can we please stop talking about this?"
"Sure, sure." Měi Nán's eyes tracked downward, landing on Tòumíng's bare torso in the better lighting of the bedroom. His expression shifted. "Wait. Hold on."
He stood up and flicked on the overhead light, flooding the room with brightness.
"DAMN!" Měi Nán's voice rose with genuine appreciation. "Look at those pecs! And the abs! The definition! The scars!" His eyes went slightly unfocused, pupils dilating. "Okay, the regeneration thing is insane but the results are, wow. You look like you've been training for years."
Tòumíng noticed the change in Měi Nán's demeanor immediately. The way his breathing got slightly faster. The way he was very obviously staring. The way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.
He was getting visibly horny.
"Stop looking at me like that!" Tòumíng grabbed a pillow and pressed it against his chest, covering himself.
Měi Nán burst out laughing. "Oh my god, you're covering up like a fair maiden! Like some blushing virgin protecting her virtue!" He clutched his stomach. "That's so precious! You're acting like a little kid!"
"I am NOT a little kid!" Tòumíng's voice rose indignantly. "I'm a MAN! I'm nineteen years old!"
"Nineteen." Měi Nán nodded sagely. "A baby. A literal infant."
"How old are you then?"
"Twenty-three."
"You're only four years older than me!"
"Four years is a lifetime at our age," Měi Nán said with exaggerated wisdom. "I've seen things. Experienced things. You're still watching softcore femboy fluff on—"
"OKAY!" Tòumíng threw the pillow at him. "That's enough old man! Stop!"
"Old man?!" Měi Nán caught the pillow, his expression shifting to mock offense. "Did you just call me an old man?"
"You called me a little kid first!"
Měi Nán stood up, struck a pose—one hand on his hip, the other behind his head, tongue sticking out playfully—and said with absolute confidence: "I'm not an old man. I'm a cutie. And you know it."
He held the pose, waiting for Tòumíng to contradict him.
Tòumíng rolled his eyes. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
"Denial is just another form of acceptance." Měi Nán grinned.
Tòumíng pushed himself off the bed, suddenly remembering the massive biohazard currently decorating his living room floor. "I need to clean up the blood before it dries completely. That's going to be a nightmare to scrub if it sets."
"Have fun with that!" Měi Nán called cheerfully.
"You're not going to help?"
"I dragged fifty pounds of lard across the city for you and watched you eat it like some kind of bizarre mukbang. I've done my part today." Měi Nán waved dismissively. "You do your cleaning thing. I'll supervise from the couch."
Tòumíng sighed and walked back to the utility closet, grabbing the same mop he'd used last night. The bucket was still there, still stained with the remnants of his previous cleanup job. He filled it with hot water and the strongest cleaning solution he had, probably not medical-grade disinfectant, but it would have to do.
The living room looked like a crime scene. Because it was. Pàng Hǔ's blood had spread in a wide pool, mixing with other fluids Tòumíng didn't want to identify. Some of it had soaked into the floorboards. Some had spread under the couch. The smell was starting to develop that copper-sweet scent of blood that had been exposed to air too long.
He got to work, starting at the edges and working inward, trying not to think too hard about what exactly he was cleaning or where it had come from.
Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric.
Tòumíng glanced back.
Měi Nán had stripped down to just his briefs, black, form-fitting, leaving very little to the imagination—and was now sprawled across the couch in a pose that could only be described as "strategically casual." One leg bent, the other extended, one arm behind his head, the other draped across his stomach.
He grabbed the TV remote and started flipping through channels.
"Really?" Tòumíng called from his position on his hands and knees, scrubbing blood. "You're just going to watch TV in your underwear while I clean up a biohazard?"
"Yep!" Měi Nán settled on some variety show, the kind with too-loud hosts and manufactured drama. "This is nice. Domestic. Like we're a couple. You're cleaning, I'm relaxing. Very traditional."
"We're not a couple."
"Yet." Měi Nán said it so casually, like he was commenting on the weather.
"We're not going to be a couple."
"Denial again. Interesting pattern."
Tòumíng decided to ignore him and focus on the blood. The mop was already turning dark red, the water in the bucket becoming more blood than water. He'd have to change it out at least three more times to get everything properly clean.
The variety show hosts laughed at something. Měi Nán laughed with them, completely comfortable, completely at ease, lounging in his underwear in an apartment that smelled like a slaughterhouse while Tòumíng scrubbed bodily fluids from the floor.
This was Tòumíng's life now.
Supernatural powers. Immortality. A femboy escort who'd decided to move in uninvited. Industrial quantities of lard consumption. Cleaning up after attempted murders.
He dunked the mop back in the bucket, wrung it out, and kept scrubbing.
At least the abs were nice.