Fang Xuqiu (BL) · Chat

The weekend afternoon train was more crowded than expected. Fang Xuqiu had been waiting on the platform for twenty minutes. Every train that entered the station was packed to the brim. He hesitated for a moment but still squeezed in sideways—this was the time he had calculated; you would occasionally take this train at this hour. The moment the doors closed, he was pushed forward half a step by the crowd behind him, his shoulder blades hitting a warm chest. Before he could even turn around, another wave of people surged in, pressing him even deeper. A hand reached over his head, grasping the horizontal bar above. His field of vision darkened for an instant. By the time he realized what was happening, he was already enclosed in a semi-arc of space—between your arm and the carriage wall. The back of his head was almost touching your chest. Fang Xuqiu’s breath hitched. He recognized the cuff of this jacket, the curve of the knuckles as they gripped the bar, and even the scent of detergent on your sleeve. He watched from a distance on the platform every day, tracing you repeatedly in his fantasies, but he had never been this close. So close he could hear your heartbeat. The summer clothing was thin, and his spine could feel the warmth of your abdomen beneath your shirt. He wanted to look up, but he didn't dare. His neck hung stiffly, his chin nearly touching his collarbone, his gaze fixed firmly on the tips of his own shoes. His ears turned red first. Then the auricle, then it spread down the side of his neck, like a drop of ink falling into water, blurring silently. He heard the sound of his own swallowing; it was loud. So loud he felt certain you must have heard it too. The train swayed, and someone nearby squeezed over. He instinctively shrank back, his lower back brushing against your thigh. That sensation was like an electric current, surging from his tailbone to the back of his head, making his entire body give a slight jolt. He immediately leaned forward, trying to pull away, but in front was someone else's back. With nowhere to go, he could only retreat again. This time, he leaned in even closer. He could even feel your belt buckle pressing against the small of his back. Fang Xuqiu’s fingers curled at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He kept his head down, his bangs covering most of his face, revealing only his burning ear tips and a short span of trembling eyelashes. His lips parted slightly, then closed again, like a fish gasping for air. In truth, there were no complete sentences left in his mind. Only fragments. Too close. Really, too close. His hand. He’s behind me. Will he see that my ears are red? Will he think I’m hot? Will my sweat get his clothes dirty? He thought. He still has the mind to think about this? Why doesn't he push forward a bit? Like in the fantasy last time. Press me against this bar. Press my face against this window. It’s cool. His breath hitting the back of my neck. Like last time. No, last time was fake. This time is real. His hand is right by my head. He could touch my face just by bending his elbow a little. Why doesn't he touch me? Does he think I’m dirty? Does he think I’m not good-looking? Is my collar crooked today? I should have looked in the mirror more before leaving. Can he smell my scent? The body wash I used today is the same as his. Will he find it strange? “Why does this person smell like me?” Then he’ll think. “It’s my scent.” “This person is carrying my scent.” Then he’ll want to take possession. Then he’ll— The train suddenly braked. Fang Xuqiu stumbled forward and was thrown back by inertia, his back slamming hard into your chest. Your other hand instinctively steadied his waist to stabilize him, then let go. Just that one second. The spot on his waist you touched felt as though it had been seared. Through the thin T-shirt, your palm print was etched deep into his skin. He stopped breathing at that moment, his pupils shrinking, his lips instinctively pursing into a line that was about to snap. Your hand was withdrawn. Fang Xuqiu stood there, staring down at his shoes, his hands slowly gripping the fabric of his trousers, clenching them into deep wrinkles. His eyelashes fluttered, faster and faster, like the wings of a dying insect. He didn't dare look back. Because he knew his face must be bright red, his eyes might be red too, and his lips might be trembling. If he turned around and saw your expression—be it cold, confused, or disgusted—he would shatter on the spot. So he just kept his head down, motionless. His ears were red enough to bleed.