Li Linhan · Chat

The smoke from the incense carried an unyielding coldness, choking the throat. The master of ceremonies' voice sounded as if it were coming through a layer of fog, ringing in his ears. He didn't hear it clearly, only mechanically raising his hand to slip off the gloves he had worn for over a decade. The moment the lambskin slid down his skin, his shoulder line tensed almost instantly—the exposed skin felt as if it had lost its shield, and even the chill in the air felt like thorns, making his fingertips go numb. He reached out to grip the base of the memorial tablet, the cold, hard wood pressing against his knuckles, the only sensation keeping him conscious. His parents' funeral portraits gleamed in the candlelight. He kept his eyes cast down, not looking, not crying, feeling only as if a block of ice had been stuffed into his chest, freezing him so deeply that even breathing hurt. Yet this slight pain was far less agonizing than the restlessness hidden in his blood, brought on by his bare fingertips. He was used to the isolation of gloves, used to using a layer of leather to block all possible touch, and to hide the shameful addiction in his bones—the desire that would burn with lust at the slightest touch of human warmth. He was afraid of losing control, afraid he would tremble at someone else's hand, afraid that a casual touch would make him show that ravenous, greedy look of wanting more. So he wore gloves, wore them until everyone took it for granted, and wore them until he almost forgot what the warmth of skin against skin felt like. The guests had all dispersed, and the mourning hall finally fell quiet, leaving only the crackling of the candlelight. He was just about to put his gloves back on when his wrist was suddenly bumped—it was you. Your tearful plunge into his embrace made him stumble half a step. His bare back of hand accidentally brushed against the fabric of your coat, and in that instant, he froze completely. That familiar heat surged from the point of contact, burning through his veins to every limb, even the fine hairs on the back of his neck heating up. His fingertips curled uncontrollably, his breath catching sharply. He wanted to step back, to avoid it, but the person in his arms buried their head in the crook of his shoulder, their voice as hoarse as sandpaper, crying "Brother" over and over, tears splashing onto his overcoat, burning his chest with pain. He could hear his own heartbeat, so heavy it felt like it would shatter his ribs. The nerves beneath his skin were screaming, clamoring for him to hold you tighter, closer, to lock you in his arms, to press his hand against your skin, to nuzzle your neck, to kiss the crown of your head, or even... something far worse. That burning desire surged up like a tide, nearly breaking the dam of restraint he had built over more than a decade. His Adam's apple bobbed, his voice trembling with a tightness even he could hear: "...What's wrong?" Without looking up, you just rubbed against his collar, saying that you only had him left. These words were like a key, unlocking all his restraint. Almost uncontrollably, he raised that still-burning hand and gently cupped the back of your neck. When his fingertips touched your warm skin, his body trembled almost imperceptibly once more. The heat intensified, making his eyes sting, and his breath fell against the side of your neck, making your skin tingle. His fingertips rubbed against your skin uncontrollably, his movements clumsy yet carrying a ravenous, fragile care, so light as if afraid of breaking you. Yet the depths of his eyes swirled with an unhidable obsession, wanting to rub you into his very bones. His chin rested on the crown of your head, his voice pitched incredibly low, carrying a tremble he hadn't even noticed himself, along with a tenderness nearly cracked by suppressed desire: "...I'm here." He could feel his self-control melting, could feel the burning heat tracing your warmth, seeping into his blood and filling the empty crevices that had been isolated by gloves for over a decade. He was afraid that if he kept holding you, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. He was afraid he would lean down to kiss you, afraid he would do something even worse driven by this craving. Yet he couldn't bear to let go, couldn't bear to push away the only warmth in his arms that made him feel alive. He remained stiff like that, holding you, his fingers cupping the back of your neck, letting that lustful, scorching desire churn in his chest, nearly drowning him. It wasn't until you cried yourself out and snuggled against his chest that he suddenly snapped out of it. As if burned, he quickly withdrew his hand, hiding it inside his overcoat pocket, his fingertips still burning, his breathing completely erratic. He looked down at your face resting against his chest, his Adam's apple bobbing again. He knew that from the moment he took off his gloves and touched you, he could no longer hide it. Those gloves could block others, but they could never block you, nor could they block the crazed desire burning inside his blood for you.