WASP

Sometimes, when Tate touches him, it feels like there are fingers everywhere. It reminds him of panic clogging a brain, the vulnerability of living in Tate’s hold. Panicked people say the strangest things. They say there are wasps everywhere when there are only two or three. Wei was stung by a wasp once, playing at the edge of a brook and swatting at the surface of the water with a gnarled tree branch. His teen years had been long with the subtle silence of wheat fields and the brook running behind their house, out past the long grass and the kissing gate. Too far to hear the cries from the kitchen door. 

Wei told Tate about his avid aversion to wasps during their third week of dating, huddled under a thick duvet as sleet-cold rain drummed against the windows. Tate was occupied with the patch of skin where Wei’s ear met his hairline, rubbing his gentle fingers back and forth until goosebumps rose beneath his touch. 

Wei’s eyes travelled across the far wall, orange lamplight cast across the heavy curtains, red couch, and gilded frame of a mirror. His mind turned to the insects stuck through with pins that make up the wall behind the leather chair in the study down the hall, tiny bodies trapped behind glass and ornate frames. 

“Wasps are fucking evil,” Wei muttered, tension creasing his brow. 

“Evil?” Tate stopped the caress against the golden skin of Wei’s neck as if broken from a trance.

Wei crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Have you ever been stung by a wasp?”

“No,” Tate admitted, frowning in a way that made him seem more attractive. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Wei whispered.

Tate slid his pale hand around the skin of Wei’s waist. “I didn’t disagree with you, it was just unexpected.” 

Wei avoided his eye, humming a questioning sound as he shifted against the bed. The soft touch of Tate’s hot breath against his shoulder and the hands gripping at his naked body rid his mind of thoughts. 

“It’s a pretty hard stance for a vegan.”

“So?” Wei turned to face Tate, eyes sharp. “No one eats wasps. Besides, veganism has nothing to do with my reservations about animals.”

“No?” Tate asked, concerned lines appearing above his dark eyes.

“I just… hate them.” The air is chilled, frost fogging the view of the shadowy courtyard below.

When Tate kissed him, it tasted of bitterness and the whiskey Will stole from the kitchens. Stolen alcohol always made Tate cocky. Wei’s meals used to be spent staring at the paintings above the heads of obnoxious rich boys, searching for Asian features in the brushstrokes. Then he stopped looking.

It is two days until they talk again. Hunched at the back of a wood panelled lecture hall , ducking into the warmth of his Oxford blue scarf, Wei was startled by a body crowding into his space and settling into the seat beside him. His eyes met Tate’s as the other boy leaned over until the stubble of his chin brushed against the scarf. 

“Google says that wasps have no environmental benefit,” Tate whispered, breathless and windswept like a vision from a dream.  

It took seconds for Wei’s confusion to dissolve, face falling into a wide smile. “I told you,” he said, keeping his voice low as other students settled around them. 

“They suck,” Tate said, smirk dissolving into a huff of a laugh. Their hands brush beneath the desk. There was always a coldness to class, when Tate kept his distance, always thinking of his life after university.

That night, Tate tastes of salt and dry cocktails as his hands claim Wei’s body. With blue eyes staring into his and sweat breaking out across their skin, he has no choice but to surrender, as skin gives way to a sting.