(Locker room — sitting alone with the new bandage)
Wei stared at his wrist long after the door had clicked shut behind Jian. The bandage sat smooth and secure against his skin, edges perfectly aligned, knot small and precise. It felt foreign. Too neat. Too gentle. Too intentional.
His fingers rose, trembling faintly, and brushed over the knot. The cotton was still warm from Jian's touch.
"…Why?"
The word slipped out, barely a breath.
"Why did he… help me?"
He lifted his gaze toward the doorway. Empty corridor beyond. Jian was already gone—probably halfway across the school by now—but Wei kept looking anyway, as though the answer might walk back in.
"He wasn't supposed to do that."
His voice cracked on the last word, soft and uncertain.
"He's never done that."
Wei's free hand curled into the edge of the bench, knuckles paling. Memories flickered: Jian's careless laugh in the hallway, the way he'd always looked past him, never at him. Never close enough to see the bruises. Never close enough to care.
"He doesn't even like me."
The statement hung in the quiet locker room, small and heavy. Wei pressed his lips together, eyes dropping back to the bandage. His thumb traced the knot again—slow, almost reverent—like proof that the moment had been real.
The faucet dripped on. Steady. Unchanged.
Wei stayed seated, wrist cradled against his chest, wondering if the gentleness would last, or if tomorrow everything would snap back to the way it had always been.
His breath trembled, small and uneven in the quiet.
"So why… did he kneel like that?"
The memory replayed: Jian lowering himself to the bench, steady hands cradling his wrist without hesitation.
"Why did he touch my hand like it mattered?"
Fingertips careful, almost reverent, brushing skin no one else had ever handled so gently.
"Why did he look… worried?"
That brief flicker in Jian's eyes—something close to concern, something Wei didn't recognize because it had never been directed at him before.
Wei lowered his head, hiding his gaze behind dark lashes. His free hand pressed flat against the bench, fingers curling inward.
"Don't… don't get used to that."
The warning felt necessary, like armor slipping back into place.
"People aren't gentle twice."
"Don't start believing it meant something."
He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, willing his heartbeat to slow. It refused.
"He'll go back to normal tomorrow."
"They always do."
"Everyone always leaves."
His fingers tightened until the knuckles whitened. The bandage seemed to pulse faintly with his quickening pulse.
"…So why does this hurt?"
"Why do I feel like I want to… believe him?"
He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenching.
"Idiot. Don't."
The word echoed inside his skull, sharp and self-directed.
"It was just a bandage."
"Just a moment."
"…Right?"
The locker room offered no answer. Only the slow drip of the faucet and the heavier weight settling deeper in his chest.
Wei opened his eyes again. He lifted his wrist once more, studying the neat knot Jian had tied. Perfect. Steady. Real.
For a long moment he simply looked at it, thumb brushing the edge as though testing whether the gentleness would vanish if he pressed too hard.
It didn't.
Not yet.
But tomorrow was coming.
And tomorrow, everything could snap back to the way it had always been—cold, distant, safe in its indifference.
He exhaled shakily and cradled the bandaged wrist against his chest, holding onto the small proof of kindness for just a little longer.
Jian bent over the sink and splashed cold water across his face. It hit like ice, ran down his jaw in rivulets, dripped onto the porcelain. It did nothing to cool the heat roaring under his skin.
His heartbeat hammered on, loud and stubborn, refusing to slow.
He gripped the sink edges until his knuckles blanched white, staring at his own reflection—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, something unsteady flickering behind them.
"…What did I just do?"
The words came out hoarse, barely louder than the drip of the tap.
"Why did I… go to him?"
He pressed his forehead against the cool mirror for a second, breath fogging the glass. Images flashed: Wei's hunched shoulders, the ugly bruise, the way his wrist had trembled under Jian's fingers. The quiet flinch when he'd first sat down. The way Wei hadn't pulled away.
"Why couldn't I walk away?"
His voice cracked on the last word. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the questions kept coming, relentless.
He'd told himself it was just curiosity. Just passing by. Just a bandage.
Lies. All of it.
Something had shifted the moment he'd touched Wei's skin—fragile, warm, alive—and now the feeling wouldn't leave. A pull he didn't understand. A need he hadn't named.
Jian straightened slowly. Water still dripped from his chin. His hands shook as he wiped them on his pants.
He didn't have answers. Not yet.
But the corridor outside waited, and somewhere in the school Wei was still sitting with that bandage Jian had tied himself.
He exhaled once, shaky, and pushed away from the sink.
Tomorrow he'd have to face whatever this was.
For now, he just stood there, heart still racing, wondering how one small act had cracked something open inside him he hadn't known was closed.
His reflection stared back—eyes wide, brows knotted, mouth set in a tense line he barely recognized. Confused. Bothered. Unsettled in a way he couldn't shake.
"His wrist… looked bad."
The words came out low, rough against the quiet hum of the fluorescent light.
"How is he even holding his pen like that?"
Jian pictured it suddenly: Wei in class, head down, fingers curled around his pencil, writing slow and steady. No tremor. No wince. Nothing to betray the swollen bruise hidden beneath the sleeve.
"Did no one see it?"
His throat tightened, a hard swallow he couldn't force down.
"…Did I never see it?"
The question stung sharper than the cold water. All those days—weeks, months—sitting two rows behind, watching without really looking. The way Wei always kept his right arm close to his side. The long sleeves even in heat. The quiet way he moved, never drawing attention.
"He didn't flinch."
"Not once in class."
Jian pressed his palms harder against the sink edge, knuckles whitening.
"How can someone hide pain like that?"
The faucet dripped once, twice. No answer came. Only the echo of his own uneven breathing and the memory of Wei's wrist—fragile under his fingers, warm despite everything.
He straightened slowly. Wiped his face with the back of his hand. The reflection still looked lost.
Outside the washroom door, the corridor stretched empty and quiet. Somewhere in the school, Wei was probably still sitting in the locker room, staring at the bandage Jian had tied himself.
Jian exhaled, shaky. He didn't know what came next. Only that he couldn't pretend he hadn't seen anymore.
Jian ran a trembling hand through his damp hair, fingers catching and tugging hard enough to sting.
"And why does it feel like it hurts me?"
The question scraped out low, raw.
"…Why does it bother me this much?"
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the images that kept replaying: Wei's wide, startled eyes when he'd first sat down. The faint tremble in that thin wrist. The way Wei hadn't pulled away—not once—even though every instinct must have screamed to.
"It was just a bandage."
He forced the words out like a mantra, desperate to believe them.
"I didn't mean anything."
A beat. Then quieter, almost accusing:
"…Did I?"
His breath shook, uneven against the mirror. The cold seeped into his skin, but it couldn't touch the heat still burning in his chest.
"Why did he look at me like that?"
The memory sharpened—Wei's parted lips, the flicker of disbelief, the unguarded softness that had cracked something open inside Jian without warning.
"That surprised face… like he didn't believe someone could care."
"Why did that make my chest hurt?"
He leaned harder into the mirror, forehead numb against the glass, palms flat on either side of the sink as though bracing for impact.
"What are you doing to me, Wei?"
The name felt heavy on his tongue—spoken aloud for the first time like this, quiet and private.
"And why do I feel like… I want to go back?"
The pull was there, insistent, tugging him toward the locker room he'd just fled. Toward the boy still sitting alone with a bandage Jian had tied himself.
"…Why does this feel wrong if I leave it like this?"
Silence answered. Only the slow drip of the faucet and his own ragged breathing.
Then, so soft he barely heard it himself—a whisper he would never admit to anyone, not even in daylight:
"…I want to know you."
The words hung in the empty washroom, fragile and terrifying. Jian stayed there, forehead still pressed to the mirror, heart thudding too loud, too fast.
He didn't move for a long minute.
Outside, the corridor lights buzzed faintly. Somewhere in the school, Wei was probably still cradling that wrist, tracing the knot with careful fingertips.
Jian exhaled once—shaky, resigned—and finally pushed away from the sink.
He didn't know what came next.
But walking away didn't feel possible anymore.