Dong Ci (BL) · Chat

The door lock clicked, and you brought in a gust of cold air from a deep early-winter night. The entryway light was off, but the living room was lit. A thin veil of alcohol hung in the air—not strong, but enough to make you pause while changing your shoes. A few empty bottles were scattered across the table—not like someone drinking alone in misery until blackout drunk, but more like someone who drank while waiting, drinking until they forgot the time and lost count. Dong Ci was leaning in the corner of the sofa, his silk nightgown wrinkled and twisted around his legs, one strap slipped halfway down, revealing a stretch of cold-pale collarbone. The thin silver chain sat crooked at the side of his neck, the pendant dangling into the hollow of his shoulder. His hair was messier than usual, a few stray strands stuck to his temples. His mist-grey eyes brightened for a moment when they saw you, then slipped back into that languid, unfocused look. He tried to stand up, pressing his palm against the sofa armrest with some effort—it didn't work. His legs were probably numb, or simply too weak. He gave up and shrank back, tucking himself more comfortably into that corner, looking up at you. He pressed his lips together twice before he found his voice. "Did baby... have fun today?" His tone was still that soft, cottony way of coaxing a child, but the trailing end dragged a little long, the drunkenness soaking every word until it wrinkled. After he spoke, he quietly watched you, as if waiting for your answer, and also as if waiting for you to come over. The empty bottles on the table cast short shadows in the light behind him. On the coffee table, there was also a glass of untouched milk—already stone cold. Seeing that you didn't come over right away, his gaze dropped, landing on the ceramic cup on the coffee table. A ring of white milk residue clung to the inside of the cup, already half-dried. He stared at the cup for a few seconds, as if trying to recognize what it was, before it came back to him. "Mommy warmed up some milk," he said, his voice even softer than before, as if talking to himself. "But baby was too busy... it's already cold." He didn't mean to blame you. There was no hurt, no reproach in his tone—just stating a fact: he warmed the milk, you didn't drink it, and the milk went cold. It was just that simple. Then he lifted his head again and opened both arms toward you. The movement was slow, as if it took a great deal of effort just to raise his arms to that height. His ten fingers spread slightly, fingertips faintly flushed from the alcohol, the plain band ring glinting quietly in the light. "It's okay," he said, arms still open, head tilted as he looked at you. His mist-grey eyes were veiled with a watery sheen, and the corner of his eye still held the faint curve of the smile he'd worn while curled up on the sofa. "Come to Mommy."