Chapter Text
Chi Cheng was sipping his beer in a quiet corner of the room—if you could call quiet the pulsing music vibrating through the walls and straight into his skull.
He supposed relatively quiet would be more accurate, since no one was actively yelling in his ear, no one had spilled a drink on him yet, and no one had tried to drag him onto the makeshift dance floor his brother had declared “absolutely essential for the vibe.”
People passed him by without looking, some brushing past his shoulder while others cut in front of him without noticing he was there at all—it was almost impressive how invisible he could be in a room this crowded.
The beer tasted like shit, and Chi Cheng grimaced as he took another sip anyway. It was still better than the fluorescent-colored disaster Chi Yan had tried to hand him earlier, sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup.
“Trust me,” his brother had said, grinning like he was about to commit a crime. “You’ll love it.”
Chi Cheng had not trusted him.
He leaned back against the wall, the bottle cool and sweating in his hand, and surveyed the room with the distant resignation of someone waiting out a natural disaster—the kind you didn’t fight, only endured until it passed.
The place felt complicit in that feeling. It looked like it had been designed to intimidate rather than welcome, every detail calculated and unyielding. Everything was dark and intentional: blackened wooden beams running overhead like exposed ribs, thick pillars anchoring the space with the subtle threat of permanence. Leather couches sat low and sunken, deep enough to swallow whoever made the mistake of settling into them for too long. Warm amber light bled from hidden fixtures and low candles, pooling lazily across polished metal and glass until the entire place glowed with a kind of manufactured intimacy—carefully curated, faintly oppressive.
The bar itself stretched along one side of the room, long and immaculate. Bottles were arranged with obsessive symmetry, backlit shelves turning alcohol into decoration rather than invitation. Nothing here felt accidental. Every surface had been chosen to signal effortless expense: brushed steel that never showed fingerprints, dark stone cool to the touch, heavy leather cracked just enough to suggest taste rather than age.
Toward the back, the ceiling opened up into glass and steel, an industrial skeleton softened by hanging plants and shadows placed with deliberate care. Tables were spaced just far enough apart to feel exclusive, yet close enough that privacy was mostly an illusion. It was the kind of place where conversations were meant to stay low and unfinished, where glances lingered longer than words, and where money spoke louder than anyone else in the room.
Chi Cheng pressed himself a little closer to the wall, content to remain at the edges of it all, waiting for the night to move on without him.
This was supposed to be their twenty-first birthday party—a milestone, something unforgettable.
So far, Chi Cheng was doing his best to forget it in real time.
Chi Yan had rented the whole place for it, bought the night outright, paying to have the doors locked to anyone who wasn’t invited and to turn it into a sealed box of noise, bodies, and obligation. The kind of gesture meant to look generous, impressive—undeniable.
Chi Cheng couldn’t remember the bar’s name—he’d seen it once, maybe, cracked lettering over the entrance already forgettable, and it hadn’t survived past the first drink. If Chi Yan had asked him tomorrow where they’d celebrated turning twenty-one, he wouldn’t have had an answer.
Money had done what money always did—erased the details, replaced them with excess. Lights too bright, music too loud, congratulations delivered like lines from a script. A whole bar rented out to commemorate something that already felt hollow.
He hated crowds—the press of too many bodies moving without rhythm or consideration, the constant brush of strangers’ elbows and shoulders as if space were something to be taken rather than shared. He hated loud music, the kind that didn’t just fill the room but forced itself into his bones, rattling his chest and turning thought into something fragmented and distant. He hated drunk people who mistook volume for personality and proximity for permission, who leaned too close, spoke too loudly, and laughed with open mouths inches from his face.
Most of all, he hated being here for the same reason he always hated places like this—he didn’t belong.
Chi Yan, on the other hand, belonged everywhere.
The truth settled in his chest with familiar weight. He stood at the edge of the room like a piece of furniture no one bothered to notice, present but unnecessary, watching a world that moved easily without him. Everyone else seemed to know where to stand, how to speak, when to touch. Chi Cheng felt like a guest who had arrived without an invitation and stayed too long out of politeness.
This place wasn’t built for people like him.
And he had learned, long ago, that the easiest way to survive in spaces like this was to make himself as small—and as invisible—as possible.
Chi Cheng spotted his brother across the room instantly—the same face, the same build, the same stupidly symmetrical features, but none of the restraint. Chi Yan had his arm slung around someone Chi Cheng didn’t recognize, laughing too loud with his head thrown back, his drink already replaced by another, looking like he’d been born under flashing lights.
Chi Cheng looked like someone who had wandered in by accident.
Someone bumped into him, hard enough to jostle his arm.
“Sorry, man,” a stranger slurred, already moving on.
Chi Cheng didn’t respond, simply adjusting his grip on the bottle as he exhaled slowly.
Twenty-one, he reminded himself. Just survive tonight.
That was when someone stopped in front of him—not brushed past, not shouldered aside with a muttered apology, not one of the many half-drunk bodies colliding and moving on without a second glance.
The space in front of Chi Cheng went abruptly still, as if the current of people had broken around them, and he felt it before he fully registered it—the sudden absence of motion, the pressure of someone standing too close, blocking the air—so he looked up.
The man looming in front of him was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained force, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles along it stood out as his teeth ground together, his sharp, burning eyes fixed on Chi Cheng with a dangerous focus, like a decision already made.
There was violence in the way he held himself, in the rigid set of his shoulders and the tension coiled through his frame like a pulled wire, making him look less like someone there to talk and more like someone trying not to hurt the first thing in reach.
For a split second, Chi Cheng had the absurd thought that if this man decided to strike, no one around them would notice until it was already too late.
The man looked like he wanted to kill someone.
Oh no, Chi Cheng thought. Not this again.
It happened sometimes—rarely, but often enough to make his stomach sink every time. People mistook him for his brother—people Chi Yan had flirted with, dated briefly, and discarded without much thought, old hookups with hurt feelings, sometimes the occasional unbalanced ex who hadn’t taken rejection well. Chi Cheng did everything in his power to stay invisible precisely to avoid situations like this, but it didn’t always work.
This was probably one of those moments—the kind where he’d be blamed for something he hadn’t done, hadn’t said, hadn’t even known about.
“What the hell is your problem?!” the man shouted, forcing his voice over the pounding music.
Chi Cheng sighed inwardly.
“Listen,” he started, already tired, “I don’t know what you—”
He never finished the sentence.
The slap came fast and sharp, the sound cracking through the air as Chi Cheng’s head snapped to the side, pain exploding across his cheek, his vision blurring instantly while his eyes watered and his ears rang, the world tilting off its axis.
His fingers went slack, the bottle slipping from his hand and tipping sideways as it fell, cold liquid splashing across the front of his hoodie and soaking into the fabric before he even registered it.
Then the glass hit the floor and shattered, the sharp crack cutting through the music for a split second before dissolving back into noise, beer spreading across the floor in a dark, sticky puddle around his shoes.
For a moment, Chi Cheng couldn’t move.
All he could hear was sound—music pounding, voices overlapping, someone swearing nearby, and beneath it all the relentless rush of blood in his ears, loud enough to drown out everything else.
“You think you can just grab someone without any consequences?” the man snarled, still shaking with rage. “Who do you think you are?”
Before Chi Cheng could even process what had happened, someone else rushed forward. Hands grabbed the man’s arms, pulling him back with visible panic, as if afraid he might do something even worse.
Chi Cheng had been insulted before—shoved, mocked, dismissed—but no one had ever hit him like that, openly and violently, for something he hadn’t done.
Slowly, he turned his head back, blinking hard as he tried to keep the sting in his eyes from spilling over, staring at the two strangers in front of him with his mouth slightly open, shock rendering him momentarily speechless.
“Da Wei,” the shorter man said frantically. He had slightly curly hair, glasses slipping down his nose as he glanced between them. “I told you I wasn’t sure if it was him—”
“You’re telling me this now?” the man snapped, voice cracking. “After I literally assaulted him?”
The man with glasses opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly at a loss.
That was when Chi Yan appeared, staggering into the scene drunk and smiling, entirely unaware of the tension he had walked in. Without hesitation he slung an arm around Chi Cheng’s shoulders—casual, familiar—as if Chi Cheng wasn’t already humiliated enough.
The movement drew attention immediately, conversations faltering as heads turned and curious eyes lingered, drinking in the spectacle.
Chi Cheng stood there, cheek burning, surrounded by strangers and noise and his brother’s careless presence, wishing—fiercely—that he could disappear completely.
“Oy,” Chi Yan said cheerfully, oblivious to the frozen tension around them. “What’s going on here?”
The man who had slapped Chi Cheng went rigid.
Slowly—very slowly—his expression shifted, fury draining out of it in stages, replaced first by confusion and then by something dangerously close to horror.
The man with glasses let out a thin, strangled sound. “Oh.”
Chi Cheng didn’t look at his brother, because he didn’t trust himself to—if he did, he might actually snap, and that would only make this worse.
The angry man stared between the two of them, eyes flicking from Chi Yan’s careless grin to Chi Cheng’s reddening cheek. His breathing hitched.
“…You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he muttered.
Chi Yan frowned, finally sensing something was off as his gaze followed the man’s and then dropped to Chi Cheng’s face, his smile faltering.
“What happened to you?” he asked, squinting. “Did someone hit you?”
Silence fell like a dropped glass.
Every pair of eyes nearby locked onto them. The music kept pounding, merciless, but the space around Chi Cheng felt hollowed out, exposed. He could feel heat creeping up his neck, humiliation pooling low and heavy in his chest.
“It was a misunderstanding,” the man with glasses said quickly, voice cracking under pressure. “We—we thought—”
“You thought he was me,” Chi Yan finished slowly.
The angry man scrubbed a hand through his hair.
“I thought you were him,” he corrected hoarsely, looking directly at Chi Cheng now, not aggressively anymore. “I’m sorry. I thought you were the guy who—”
“Is this your boyfriend?” Chi Yan asked blandly.
The man flinched.
Chi Cheng closed his eyes.
Of course.
“That’s not—” the man with glasses started, then stopped, clearly reconsidering the wisdom of correcting anything at this point.
Chi Yan’s arm tightened slightly around Chi Cheng’s shoulders—not comfortingly, but possessively, like he was claiming territory.
“Well,” Chi Yan said lightly, “good news is, you got the wrong twin.”
His gaze slid sideways, sharp and assessing. “Bad news is, you just slapped him.”
A murmur rippled through the surrounding crowd.
Chi Cheng finally opened his eyes.
The man who had hit him looked pale at first, as if all the blood had drained from his face, but then something shifted, his jaw tightening and his expression hardening as his gaze locked onto Chi Yan—and didn’t move. Chi Yan, for once, didn’t look amused, standing a little too still as his smile formed more slowly.
That alone was unsettling, because Chi Yan was never fazed by anything.
“It was an oversight on my part,” the man said slowly, each word measured. “I can fix that mistake real quick by slapping the right person. The one who actually deserves it.”
Chi Cheng’s stomach dropped.
The man lunged.
For half a second, Chi Yan looked genuinely surprised, then he laughed—bright and delighted, like this was exactly the kind of entertainment he lived for—the sound cutting through the tension like gasoline on a spark.
The man’s friend rushed forward again, grabbing him around the chest and hauling him back with a grunt. “Da Wei—stop!”
“I want to see you try,” Chi Yan said, still smiling, eyes glinting now.
Da Wei thrashed against his friend’s grip, fury reignited. “Let me go, Xiao Shuai!” he shouted. “I’ll wipe that smirk off his stupid face!”
The surrounding crowd leaned in despite themselves, someone whistling while someone else laughed nervously.
Chi Cheng stood frozen between them, cheek still burning, pulse pounding too loud in his ears. He felt absurdly detached from the scene, like he was watching something spiral out of control from the wrong side of a glass wall.
This was what his brother thrived on.
Chi Cheng stepped forward before he could think better of it.
He didn’t want this to get louder or draw more eyes, more whispers, more people pulling out their phones, because he was already painfully aware of how many strangers were watching and how the air around them felt tight with anticipation, like the room was waiting for something to break.
“Enough,” he said, voice low but steady.
Da Wei was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just run a race, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides with knuckles white from restrained aggression. For a moment, he looked ready to lunge again, gaze locked on Chi Yan’s infuriatingly relaxed smile.
Then his eyes flicked to Chi Cheng and he really looked at him this time.
The anger didn’t disappear, but it faltered—hesitated. Da Wei’s gaze lingered on Chi Cheng’s face, on the faint redness blooming across his cheek, on the way his expression had tightened around the eyes despite his best efforts to stay composed.
Something in Da Wei’s expression shifted.
He clicked his tongue sharply, frustration etched deep into his features, and took a reluctant step back—not far, not enough to be safe, but enough to signal he was standing down, for now.
“Don’t push it,” he muttered, eyes never leaving Chi Yan. “I swear, say one more stupid thing and I won’t stop next time.”
Chi Yan only grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself.
Chi Cheng felt a familiar, heavy exhaustion settle in his chest.
This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid.
“I’ll forgive you,” Chi Yan said, stepping closer to Da Wei, his expression sharpening into something that resembled seriousness, “if you apologize to my brother.”
Da Wei let out a harsh breath, irritation written plainly across his face. “You apologize first,” he snapped. “For grabbing my best friend, asshole.”
Chi Yan laughed under his breath, low and humorless. “He was practically throwing himself at me.”
“No, I wasn’t!” Xiao Shuai protested, his voice breaking as he took a step forward. “Don’t twist this! You harassed me—and when I told you to stop, you started groping me!”
Chi Cheng looked at his brother.
There was no attempt to hide the disgust on his face this time. It was a silent question, raw and unfiltered. Is that true?
Chi Yan only shrugged, careless as ever. “Maybe I drank too much,” he said lightly. “I don’t remember it that way.”
“Don’t blame alcohol for everything,” Da Wei snarled. “You’re just a perverted piece of shit.”
Chi Cheng stared.
The words echoed louder than the music, louder than the murmurs around them. For a moment, he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. Someone had said it—out loud, directly to Chi Yan’s face.
His first instinct was to react, to defend his brother out of habit and loyalty ingrained too deep to ignore, but the truth settled heavy and immovable in his chest—Chi Yan deserved it.
That realization landed heavier than the slap had.
Chi Cheng felt something in him finally give way. He was tired—tired of the excuses, tired of the behavior, tired of watching his brother cross lines and laugh while other people paid the price. Being twins didn’t make this acceptable and being family didn’t make it forgivable.
Chi Yan noticed—and this time, he didn’t shrug it off.
“…What?” he asked, defensive now. “You think I did something wrong?”
Chi Cheng didn’t answer immediately.
Before he could, a new voice cut through the tension.
“Yeah,” someone said from behind them, calm, clear, and entirely unimpressed. “You did.”
Every head turned.
The man who had spoken stepped forward from the edge of the crowd, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. He looked relaxed—too relaxed for someone stepping into a volatile situation.
Chi Cheng hadn’t seen him before, but the man was looking directly at Chi Yan.
“You don’t get to touch people without consent,” the man continued evenly. “And you definitely don’t get to laugh about it afterward.”
Chi Yan’s eyes narrowed. “And who the hell are you?”
The man’s gaze flicked briefly to Xiao Shuai—softening, just a little—before returning to Chi Yan.
“Someone who’s not impressed.”
“Cheng Yu—” Xiao Shuai whispered, his voice barely audible beneath the music.
The newcomer—Cheng Yu—stepped in front of him immediately, a protective arm coming up around Xiao Shuai’s shoulders without hesitation. The gesture was instinctive, practiced—someone who knew exactly when to shield and how.
“And for your information,” he said, his voice low and dangerous as he glared at Chi Yan, “that’s my boyfriend you just grabbed.”
For a brief, fragile moment, everything seemed to pause.
The music kept playing, but the space between them felt suspended, stretched thin with the promise of something about to snap. Chi Cheng watched the tension coil tighter, his pulse thudding painfully in his ears. He wasn’t sure whether his brother would walk away from this with nothing worse than bruised pride—or whether Cheng Yu would finally lose what little restraint he had left.
Then Chi Yan scoffed.
“Whatever, man,” he muttered, already backing away, his earlier bravado dissolving as quickly as it had appeared. He turned, stumbling into the crowd without another glance, clearly deciding that this was a fight he had no intention of finishing.
Coward, Chi Cheng thought bitterly.
The embarrassment came in a second wave, heavier than the first. Chi Yan left him there—alone, exposed—standing in the aftermath of his mess with these strangers who had every reason to despise him by association.
Da Wei turned back to Chi Cheng, one brow lifting. “Wow,” he said dryly. “You have a… lovely brother.”
Chi Cheng felt heat flood his face—hotter than the sting on his cheek, hotter than the room itself. He had never felt humiliation settle so deeply, so completely.
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice tight. “Sometimes I wonder how we even share the same blood.”
He bowed slightly, the gesture automatic, ingrained. “I’m sorry,” he said, directing it first to Xiao Shuai, then to Da Wei. “For all of that.”
Da Wei immediately shook his head and reached out, stopping him before he could lower himself further. “Hey—no,” he said firmly. “That’s not on you. He’s a certified prick. You don’t need to apologize for him.”
His gaze lingered, softening as it shifted to Chi Cheng’s face, and he frowned slightly.
“…Your cheek is really red,” Da Wei said, quieter now. There was something like shame in his voice. “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. I’m really sorry.”
He lifted his hand, hesitating as if unsure whether he was allowed to close the distance between them.
Chi Cheng flinched before he could stop himself—not from pain, but from the sudden nearness. Da Wei was standing too close now, close enough that Chi Cheng could feel his presence, warm and solid and unavoidable.
Da Wei tilted his head, studying Chi Cheng’s face with a concentration that made Chi Cheng acutely self-conscious. He bit down on his thumb, brows furrowed.
“I can’t stand this,” Da Wei muttered to himself. Then, decisively, “Come with me.”
Before Chi Cheng could react, Da Wei grabbed his arm—not roughly, but without waiting for permission. “We need to do something before the swelling gets worse.”
“Wait—” Chi Cheng started, but the word barely made it past his lips.
Da Wei glanced over his shoulder, already moving, and called back to his friend, “Shuai Shuai, find us a place to sit. I’ll be right back.”
Xiao Shuai nodded quickly, still hovering near the edge of the chaos, eyes darting with concern.
Then Chi Cheng was being pulled forward.
Da Wei guided him through the main room and straight into the crush of bodies, moving with purpose as if he knew exactly where he was going. Conversations stalled as they passed, laughter faltering mid-syllable. Curious eyes followed them, drawn by the sight of Chi Cheng’s flushed face and Da Wei’s tight grip on his arm. Someone whispered something he couldn’t quite make out over the music.
Chi Cheng kept his head down, heat crawling up his neck and into his ears, painfully aware of every step. His arm was still caught in Da Wei’s firm hold, the pressure steady and inescapable.
He had never wanted the floor to swallow him whole more than he did in that moment.
Da Wei didn’t slow until they reached the narrow hallway leading toward the restrooms, the noise behind them dulling with each step, the chaos of the party finally beginning to fade.
The bathroom was empty.
Da Wei pushed the door open, glanced inside with a quick, practiced sweep, then pulled Chi Cheng in after him and shut it firmly behind them. The noise from the party dulled instantly, reduced to a distant thrum—music muffled, voices blurred into something almost bearable.
For the first time since the slap, Chi Cheng could breathe.
Da Wei didn’t hesitate, moving like someone who knew exactly what to do with his hands as he turned on the tap, wet the towel, and wrung it out with efficient motions. The fluorescent light overhead hummed softly, unforgiving and bright, illuminating every flaw Chi Cheng would rather keep hidden.
Da Wei turned back to him and lifted a hand, gesturing.
“Come here.”
It wasn’t a request, yet Chi Cheng hesitated anyway, his instincts urging him to keep his distance and remain pressed safely against the wall where no one could reach him, but the space was small and Da Wei filled it easily, leaving him with no real alternative.
Chi Cheng sighed quietly and stepped closer.
Da Wei’s mouth curved upward, just a little—satisfied, almost smug, like he’d won something small and personal. Then his expression softened, the sharpness melting away into something gentler.
He lifted the towel and pressed it carefully to Chi Cheng’s cheek.
Cold bloomed against the lingering heat. Chi Cheng inhaled sharply despite himself.
“Sorry,” Da Wei murmured, adjusting his grip immediately, lighter now. His touch was unexpectedly careful, his fingers brushing Chi Cheng’s skin only when necessary. “Tell me if it hurts.”
Chi Cheng didn’t answer. He stood very still, eyes unfocused, acutely aware of how close Da Wei was—close enough that he could feel his warmth, smell clean soap and something faintly spiced beneath it. The anger from earlier was gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that felt far more dangerous.
The silence stretched.
The towel remained pressed to his cheek, steady and grounding. Chi Cheng found himself counting his breaths without meaning to.
“I’m Wu Suo Wei,” the man said at last, voice low, as if they were sharing a secret. “By the way.”
Chi Cheng swallowed.
The name settled somewhere deep in his chest, unfamiliar and heavy. He didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure if it was shock, exhaustion, or the way Suo Wei’s eyes stayed on him—open, searching, far too attentive.
He finally spoke, voice softer than he intended.
“Chi Cheng.”
Suo Wei’s lips curved into something softer than, the expression subdued but undeniably genuine.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, still holding the towel in place, thumb brushing lightly along the edge of Chi Cheng’s jaw as if to test whether he’d pull away.
Chi Cheng didn’t.
“I’m sorry I ruined your birthday,” Suo Wei whispered.
The words were quiet, nearly lost beneath the low hum of the lights, but his eyes never left Chi Cheng’s face. They were dark and steady, intent in a way that made Chi Cheng acutely aware of himself—of the uneven rise and fall of his chest, of the towel pressed to his cheek, of how little space separated them.
“Chi Cheng.”
Hearing his name like that—soft, almost reverent—sent a strange shiver through him, sounding different on Suo Wei’s lips, less like an identifier and more like a confession, too intimate, too careful.
Chi Cheng’s breath caught before he could stop it. He tried to steady himself, to remind his body that this was nothing, that it didn’t mean anything, but Suo Wei’s attention was unwavering, warm and focused, and it settled over Chi Cheng like a weight he hadn’t been prepared to carry.
The bathroom felt smaller by the second, the air thickening with heat and something unspoken. Chi Cheng could feel it in the way Suo Wei’s thumb lingered near his jaw, in the way his gaze dipped for the briefest moment before returning to Chi Cheng’s eyes.
Too close, his mind supplied weakly.
But he didn’t step back.
Suo Wei shifted almost imperceptibly, adjusting the towel, his knuckles brushing Chi Cheng’s skin. The touch was light—barely there—and somehow that made it worse.
Chi Cheng swallowed again, throat dry.
“I’m fine now,” he managed at last, though the words sounded distant even to his own ears.
Suo Wei didn’t look convinced.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The party existed somewhere beyond the door, loud and careless and irrelevant. Here, there was only the steady press of cold against heat, the quiet space between breaths, and the unsettling realization that Chi Cheng was being seen—really seen—in a way he wasn’t used to at all.
The towel was still cool against Chi Cheng’s cheek, damp enough that water beaded along his jaw and threatened to drip onto his collar. Suo Wei adjusted his grip minutely, as if calibrating pressure, his touch careful in a way that felt intentional rather than cautious.
“You don’t look fine to me,” he added, quieter still, like he was negotiating with the silence instead of Chi Cheng. ”I mean your cheek.”
Chi Cheng averted his gaze, blushing. It was easier than finding words that wouldn’t betray him.
The bathroom smelled faintly of soap and bleach, a jarring contrast to the sticky sweetness of beer clinging to his hoodie. The mirror behind Suo Wei reflected them in fragments—Chi Cheng’s flushed cheek, Suo Wei’s shoulder, the sliver of space between their bodies that felt smaller than it actually was.
Suo Wei lowered the towel slightly, studying the mark he’d left behind. His brows drew together, a crease forming between them.
“It’s already swelling,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You bruise easily?”
Chi Cheng hesitated. “I… don’t know.”
Suo Wei hummed, unconvinced, and lifted the towel again, his knuckles brushing Chi Cheng’s chin in a brief, accidental touch that sent an unwelcome spark straight through his chest, making him stiffen before he forced himself to relax. Pulling away would only make this stranger step closer, he suspected, and that thought unsettled him more than it should have.
“You’re very quiet,” Suo Wei said.
“I get that a lot.”
A corner of Suo Wei’s mouth twitched. “Funny. I don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of that.”
Chi Cheng almost smiled. Almost.
The music outside thudded again, a reminder of the party continuing without them—his brother laughing somewhere, people dancing, glasses clinking. The world he’d been desperate to escape felt suddenly far away, sealed behind the door.
Suo Wei shifted his weight, then—finally—stepped back half a pace. The loss of heat was immediate, noticeable. He wrung the towel once more and set it aside on the counter, fingers lingering on the porcelain.
“Better?” he asked.
Chi Cheng tested his jaw carefully. The pain had dulled, reduced to a steady throb. “Yeah. Thank you.”
Suo Wei only smiled in answer.
It wasn’t a big smile—just a small curve of his lips, like he found something quietly amusing and didn’t feel the need to explain it. Silence settled between them again, thick but not uncomfortable. At least, not entirely.
Chi Cheng didn’t know what to do with himself, shifting his weight as his fingers curled slightly at his sides before relaxing again, his focus drifting to the sink, the mirror—anywhere but Suo Wei. Except his eyes kept drifting back on their own, betraying him.
Suo Wei stood with an easy looseness that made him seem almost lazy, one shoulder resting lightly against the tiled wall. His denim jacket hung open, worn soft with use, the fabric faded at the seams and elbows. Under the bathroom's harsh lighting, his skin looked smooth and pale, the fluorescent bulb catching the ridge of his cheekbone and the soft dip below it. His hair framed his face in messy layers that dipped into his eyes, muting the expression in them but doing nothing to hide the weight of his stare.
Every time Chi Cheng accidentally met Suo Wei's eyes, his chest tightened and his gaze dropped to the floor, or the mirror, or his own hands—anywhere that wasn't Suo Wei's face.
“You really are nothing like your brother,” Suo Wei murmured.
Chi Cheng’s ears warmed instantly. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, voice softer than intended.
“It is,” Suo Wei replied without hesitation. “I didn’t even know Chi Yan had a brother—let alone a twin.”
Chi Cheng hesitated, then finally asked the question that had been sitting on his tongue since the beginning. “How do you know my brother?”
“We’re in the same department,” Suo Wei said easily.
Oh.
Computer science. That made sense.
“But we were never close,” Suo Wei continued, his tone shifting just slightly. “I’m not in his friends circle.” He emphasized the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “I’m only here because our entire department was invited.”
That’s so him, Chi Cheng thought. Inviting people he barely knew just to prove how many names he could collect in one room.
“Besides,” Suo Wei added, a smirk tugging at his mouth, “no one turns down free drinks, right?”
Chi Cheng let out a quiet huff. “Today you can drink as much as you want. My brother’s paying for everything.” He paused, then corrected himself with a hint of bitterness. “Well—our parents’ money. He’s never earned it himself.”
Suo Wei laughed, genuinely this time. The sound was low and unguarded, filling the small space between them.
Chi Cheng froze for half a second, startled—not by the laugh itself, but by the realization that he’d caused it.
Only then did it hit him: this was the most he had talked to anyone in a long time. Maybe ever. Normally, his words came clipped and minimal, carefully rationed, as if every conversation demanded more energy than he could afford.
But with Suo Wei standing there—close, attentive, quietly amused—his sentences came easier.
“You want to go back and bleed your brother dry?” Suo Wei asked suddenly.
The question came out of nowhere, casual and almost teasing—but before Chi Cheng could fully process it, Suo Wei’s arm slid around his shoulders.
The contact was warm, solid.
Chi Cheng stiffened instinctively, breath catching just a little. Suo Wei stood close enough now that he could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his hoodie, the light press of his forearm resting easily across Chi Cheng’s upper back.
It was the kind of touch that suggested familiarity and confidence, as if Suo Wei had already decided this was allowed, as if Chi Cheng belonged in that space—like they were friends, like Suo Wei hadn’t slapped him barely half an hour ago.
“C’mon,” Suo Wei added, giving his shoulder a small, coaxing squeeze. His voice dropped, turning almost conspiratorial. “Maybe we can still somehow save your ruined birthday.”
Chi Cheng swallowed.
He could smell him now—something clean beneath the sharp edge of alcohol, soap and fabric and skin. His heart beat too fast, his body unsure whether to pull away or lean in. No one ever touched him like this—not casually, not without asking, and yet Suo Wei’s grip wasn’t possessive, just… certain. Like he’d already made up his mind that Chi Cheng wouldn’t object.
Chi Cheng didn’t trust himself to speak right away.
Instead, he glanced sideways at Suo Wei, catching the faint curve of his smile, the relaxed tilt of his head—as if this whole night hadn’t been chaos and violence and humiliation, but something amusing they’d stumbled into together.
“Save it how?” Chi Cheng finally asked, voice quieter than he meant.
Suo Wei’s smile widened, eyes flicking down to him briefly before lifting again, bright with mischief.
“Oh,” he said. “I have a few ideas.”