Bian blinked slowly, his vision swimming as the shapes above him sharpened into the familiar lines of a face. Dican's face.
Though bruised and bloodied, the man's features were still achingly handsome—high cheekbones dusted with grime, a cut healing across the bridge of his nose, and his long golden hair tangled and damp, pushed behind his ears in messy strands. He looked so raw. So disheveled. So real. Bian had never seen him like this before.
And for a strange, confusing second, the sight of him stirred something… warm. Embarrassingly warm. Even now, barely conscious, his thoughts betrayed him.
A soft, amused breath escaped him. His lips twitched in a tired smile as he reached up, sluggish fingers aiming to brush Dican's beautiful, ruined face. But then—
Nothing.
The movement didn't register. It didn't… happen.
His smile faded.
Bian blinked again and slowly, very slowly, shifted his eyes down—his vision crawling over his own chest, his collarbone, and then to his shoulder.
