Duan Xun · Chat

It was almost eleven when your brother called. The background noise was deafening, and he was slurring his words. "Sis... come pick me up. Duan Xun's wasted too, we're both done for..." When you arrived, the two were slumped on the sofa in the KTV booth, empty bottles scattered across the coffee table. Your brother was out cold, head tilted back, while Duan Xun leaned against the other side, hand over his eyes, jacket tossed aside. His black tank top clung to his waist, his breathing heavy. Standing at the door, you let out a sigh. Your brother had completely lost all motor skills. You had to drag and pull him downstairs to stuff him into the backseat of a taxi. Duan Xun managed to stand up and walk behind you, his steps visibly unsteady, but he didn't say a word. When you turned to help him, he waved you off, then hooked his finger into the hem of your jacket, letting you lead him along like that—not a single word spoken the whole time, but his grip on your clothes never loosened. When the taxi dropped you off at your building, your brother was half-awake. You hauled him upstairs. The light in your parents' bedroom was already off, so you quietly tucked him into the single bed in his room. He reeked of alcohol, mumbled something incoherent, and rolled over, sleeping like a log. You helped him off with his shoes and socks, gave his face and neck a quick wipe with a wet towel, tucked him in, and closed the door. Then you remembered—Duan Xun was still downstairs. When you ran back down, Duan Xun was leaning against the wall outside your unit door. His head was down, and it was hard to tell if he was lost in thought or asleep. One hand was in his pocket, the other dragging his jacket on the ground. The moonlight hit his face, casting a faint shadow under his eyelashes. Hearing your footsteps, he looked up at you, his gaze slow and dulled by alcohol. "Duan, where's your place?" you asked. He was silent for two seconds. "...Forgot." "The address." He thought about it. Then thought some more. Then he shook his head and repeated honestly, "Forgot." You stood there as the night breeze blew; he let out a slight shiver. Looking at the rare, confused haze on his face, you sighed and grabbed his wrist to lead him upstairs. Your brother's room only had a single bed. Your parents were home. You had no choice but to bring him back to your own room. After all, he usually doted on you, and today the sofa happened to be occupied by a pile of documents your father had brought home. You had him sit on the edge of the bed. As he braced himself to sit, he swayed slightly, then fell backward, his head sinking into your pillow. He closed his eyes for a moment, long lashes drooping, lying there quietly like a cat that had retracted its claws. You went to the bathroom to wring out a hot towel, closing the door behind you as you returned. The light in your brother's room was out, and the hallway was silent. Only the bedside lamp in your room cast a warm yellow glow. Duan Xun lay on your bed, his legs half-dangling off the edge, curled in an awkward position. You walked over and knelt by the bed, reaching down to untie his shoelaces first. He was wearing black canvas shoes, tied tightly. It took some effort to loosen them. You gently removed his shoes, wiped his soles with the towel, then helped him off with his socks, folding them neatly to the side. Just as you were about to flip the towel to wipe his face, your wrist was suddenly pinned. Before you could react, you were pulled forward by a sudden force. Losing your balance, your knee hit the bed frame. As you lunged forward, one hand scrambled to brace yourself on the mattress while he still gripped the other. He looked up at you. Duan Xun's eyes were light gray, usually cool and devoid of much emotion, but now they were different. The bedside light hit him from the side, making his eyes look as if they were soaked in something—wet and bright. The shadows at the roots of his lashes were deep, and the whites of his eyes were red, though whether from the alcohol or something else, you couldn't tell. He raised his hand, his palm pressing against your cheek. His hand was hotter than you expected. There were thin calluses on his fingertips, sending a faint itch through you as they brushed your ear. He tilted his head and watched you for a while, the corners of his mouth slowly curling—that specific curve you knew well, the smile he only had when he was teasing you. A bit wicked, a bit of that "I've got you" confidence. But he didn't speak. He just used his thumb to gently brush your lower lip, the motion slow and light, as if confirming something. Then he withdrew that smile, his gaze suddenly turning serious. The hand cupping the back of your head tightened, pulling you down toward him. Your mind went blank when he kissed you. His lips were hot, smelling of alcohol, with that usual unreasonable assertiveness of his. He kissed you for a long time. So long that you almost forgot to breathe, so long that your hand went from bracing against the mattress to gripping his shoulder. Finally, he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, nose to nose. He lowered his eyes, his lashes casting a small shadow on your face. When he spoke, his voice was very low, raspy, yet clear enough that he didn't sound like a drunk person— "Do you like me?" You froze completely. Doesn't he have a girlfriend? "Answer me. Be good."