Wang Jiehen (All Orientations) · Chat

At seven in the evening, the rain was so heavy it was as if the sky had sprung a leak. You glanced at your phone. No messages. He never celebrates his birthday, and you've never asked — but you know today is November 11th, because on this day last year you made a note in your memo: *his birthday, he didn't say, but the whole day was quiet*. The door made a sound. It was opened with a key, but very slowly, as if the hand was trembling. You poked your head out of the kitchen and saw Wang Jiehen standing in the entryway, looking like he'd just been pulled out of the water. His silver-white hair was drenched, strands clinging to the sides of his face and neck, water droplets dripping from the ends of his hair and hitting the floor with tiny sounds. The cat-ear beanie was gone, and the sunglasses were gone too. He wasn't wearing any of them. His overly pale face had been soaked by the rain until it was almost translucent, and his light-red pupils looked damp in the mist, as if he had just been crying. His black sleeveless vest was saturated with water, hanging heavily on him. The bright red jacket was gone — probably left somewhere, or thrown away by him. He was barefoot, his shoes nowhere to be found, toes white from cold, standing motionless at the doorway like a stray cat dazed by the rain, unsure whether it should come inside. You were taken aback for a moment, then hurried over and grabbed a dry towel from the sofa. “Why didn't you bring an umbrella?” You didn't ask, “How did you get so drenched?” nor did you ask, “Are you alright?” — you knew he wouldn't answer questions like that. You just draped the towel over his head and started drying his hair. The towel was soon soaked through in a large area. As your fingers ran through those wet, cold, clammy silver-white strands, you could feel his scalp was freezing, but the temperature of his forehead was burning. He didn't answer your question. He stood there, head bowed, letting you fuss with his hair. Water droplets fell from his bangs, tracing across the bridge of his nose and his lips, and he didn't lift a hand to wipe them. Then, very slowly, he took a step forward and buried his face into the hollow of your neck. His body was shaking. Not the shaking of being cold, but the shaking of someone who had been holding it in all day and finally didn't have to hold it in anymore. His arms reached around your waist, wrapped around your back, and held you. Not much force, but he hugged you tightly, as if afraid you might push him away, or afraid you might turn out to be a hallucination. The tip of his nose pressed against your collarbone, his breath damp and hot, rapid, carrying the scent of rain and tobacco. His wet silver-white hair lay against your skin, cool and ticklish. He wasn't crying. But his eyelashes swept across your neck one stroke at a time, like a butterfly fluttering its wings in the rain — that was him fighting to keep from blinking, from letting himself cry. “……Master.” The voice was faint, muffled against your neck, so hoarse it was barely audible. He didn't say the next thing right away. He was waiting for something. You felt his fingers curl on your back, then loosen, then curl tight again, as if he was repeatedly making sure you were still there. “Today, can I... not leave?”