Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
“…you are five seconds away from a spanking.”
Cillian gave a little mock-shiver. “Spank me, Daddy.”
“Never again.” Brendan clapped a hand over Cillian’s mouth, glowering. “Never. Say. That. Again.”
“Dffdy,” Cillian mouthed against his palm.
“No more sex.”
“Okfh, okfh—” Cillian batted his hand away, laughing. “Okay, I won’t call you Daddy.” He tilted his head against the pillow, watching Brendan with coyly glittering eyes and a teasing little smile. “So tell me something instead. What made you get into acting?”
“Cantonese opera,” Brendan answered without hesitation.
Cillian blinked. “Is that different from Italian opera?”
“Yes and no. It’s…the history is different, and there’s a little less tragic romance, a little more comedy mixed in with the drama. It’s honestly a little ridiculous. And loud. But it’s also just…wonderful.” Brendan couldn’t help smiling. “Cantonese opera is…it’s political, it’s satirical, it’s romantic, it’s moralistic, it’s…everything. Complex and strange and familiar and simple all at once. And sometimes misused to spread state propaganda, when it wasn’t a key instrument in trying to destroy the state itself. There was a time when opera companies had to exile themselves to the sea, and became fighters in a political revolution—sailing from port to port in their red boats to perform and to fight in an uprising against the government, only to disappear out to sea again. That’s in some of the stories told, but…there’s more, too. Some of it is just the little common things about being human.” He glanced at Cillian. “My parents loved modern Cantonese opera, when they lived in Hong Kong. A few years after they had me, they migrated to the States—and VHS tapes had just become popular, so they brought dozens of recordings on VHS with them. I used to spend all day in the summer watching them over and over and over again.”
Cillian smiled faintly, watching him so closely. “Little Brendan, fascinated in front of the telly. Did you sing along?”
“Terribly,” Brendan admitted. “I’ve even taken voice classes, and I can’t sing to save my life. There’s a reason the two musicals I’ve been in only had me dance, and left the singing to everyone else.” He chuckled, pulling an extra pillow down to settle his head as he relaxed, one arm folded under the pillow, the other draped over Cillian. “But…that didn’t stop me when I was a kid. All I knew was that everything was so bold and bright, these intricate costumes, all the emotions larger than life. It swept me up, took me somewhere else. And I wondered what it would be like to do that for others. To take them somewhere else, just by telling a story for them. So I decided I wanted to be an actor.”
“And your parents are all right with it…?”
“Were,” Brendan corrected ruefully. “They passed a few years ago. Old age.” Cillian started to open his mouth, distress darkening his face, but Brendan stopped him with a soft shh. “Don’t—it’s all right. They left with love as they lived with love, and died content. It doesn’t hurt me anymore. I would hope for such a peaceful death, when it's my turn.”
Cillian worried at his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. “I thought…since you said, you know…about embarrassing your parents…”
Brendan snorted dryly. “Trust me, when you’re Chinese, filial piety doesn’t stop at the grave.” He shrugged. “I still care about respecting their names, even when they’re not here. But about my career…eh. They weren’t against it, they just took a while to warm up to it, though they never tried to stop me. It was just pragmatism, worrying about my future if it didn’t work out. If I didn’t get to one day star in the blockbuster gay romance of my dreams. My mother fussed and bothered over me, but she’d have fussed and bothered no matter what I did.” He met Cillian’s eyes solemnly. “It’s my mole, you see.”
“…your mole,” Cillian repeated, scrunching his nose, and Brendan laughed.
“Chinese face reading. Little things tell your fortune.” He pulled his arm out from under the pillow so he could tap the outside of his left eye. “A beauty mark in this position, past the outer corner—if it’s dark brown or black, it means you’ll spend your life fending off unwanted sexual attention.” Brief memory: a warm, wrinkled hand against his cheek, his mother’s high, whispery voice. “And my mother said, ‘My boy, my boy, you already have this mark, must you bring it on yourself?’” His lips curved almost against his will. “She wasn’t wrong, but I deal.”
“So is that what tonight was?” Cillian asked archly. “Unwanted sexual attention?”
Brendan eyed him…then slipped his hand down to curve over Cillian’s reddened ass, digging his fingers in and gripping up a firm handful. Cillian inhaled sharply through his teeth, tensing, rocking his hips forward against Brendan’s in slow hot grindings of flesh to shivering flesh; that pale face darkened, lips falling slack, eyes hazing as Cillian let out a soft, needy moan.