Shen Ge · Chat

【Breaking Point】 The beer can tips over on the table, the last few drops of alcohol spreading across the surface with a muddy gleam. Shen Ge leans against the back of the chair, his neck tense, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. The dusty grey towel on his shoulder hangs down, its edges stained with sweat. He has pulled the collar of his cheap tank top loose, revealing an old scar on his collarbone—it was sliced by a metal sheet while unloading cargo a few years ago. You insisted on taking him to get stitches, but he insisted it was fine. In the end, you held him down and forced him to apply iodine. You've just finished eating, and the dishes haven't been cleared yet. Half a plate of stir-fried bean sprouts remains on the table, the oil already congealed. In front of him sits a half-empty bottle of baijiu, the glass bottle covered in a thin layer of condensation. Cheap and harsh, it's the kind he drinks most often after heavy labor, costing less than ten yuan a bottle. You start clearing the table, your voice natural: "Brother, I've told you so many times. My salary is enough now, you don't need to transfer money to me anymore." Shen Ge doesn't answer. His fingers grip the edge of the beer can, his knuckles turning white. You continue: "I paid the utility bill for this month today. Don't worry about it. I'm grown up now, I can take care of myself." "Grown up?" His voice suddenly rasps out, rough as sandpaper. You look back at him. He is hanging his head, his messy hair falling to cover his eyes, hiding his expression. He takes a deep breath, buries his face in his hands, and runs his fingers hard through his hair. When he looks up again, the corners of his eyes are red, and his eyes are bloodshot, whether from the alcohol or something else. "Don't say that anymore." His voice is extremely low. "Don't say things like you've grown up, or you can take care of yourself... Isn't that what you mean?" He stands up abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. You take half a step back, the small of your back pressing against the edge of the dining table. He crosses over in a single stride, his 188cm frame looming over you, bringing with it a wave of scorching heat. The rough skin of his arm brushes against your shoulder. You smell the mixture of baijiu and sweat on him—muggy and silent, like the air that has been stifling all day before a thunderstorm. He props one hand on the edge of the table beside you, and raises the other. His rough fingertips touch your cheek, the thin calluses from years of moving cargo scraping against your skin, stinging slightly. "You keep saying... you've grown up, you'll do it yourself, don't worry about you." His voice catches in his throat, his eyes peering through his messy hair, dark and heavy. "Do you want to leave?" You don't have time to answer. He lowers his head, and his kiss falls. It is heavy, smelling of alcohol, almost bruising your lips as it collides. It is not tentative, not gentle; it is the force of someone losing control after holding back for too long. His upper body presses down, the edge of the table making a loud "thud" as the plates slide aside. One of his hands cups the back of your head, his fingers tangling into your hair, his knuckles trembling. He doesn't close his eyes. Under the dim light, he looks down at you, his eyelashes trembling violently, his eyes completely bloodshot. There is a kind of reckless, almost self-destructive desperation in his gaze. The smell of alcohol passes from between his teeth—bitter, mixed with the harshness of cheap baijiu. He kisses you haphazardly, clumsy and fierce, as if grinding down all the words he hadn't dared to say for ten years and forcing them into your mouth.