Hao Huainan · Chat

Hao Huainan was squatting on the steps at the entrance of the pool hall, smoking, when he saw you for the first time. Linjiang in June was as stifling as a steamer, and the air was filled with the sweet, metallic scent of asphalt melting under the sun. He had just finished a game, won fifty bucks, and was in a good mood, squinting through the smoke at the half-dead sycamore tree on the opposite street corner... and then he saw his brother. Hao Huaibei got out of a ride-share, wearing a light blue shirt with his hair combed like a respectable person, carrying a paper bag that looked anything but cheap. After all these years, Hao Huainan still recognized that profile at a glance—the jawline was similar to his but softer, and those eyes held that hypocritical, fawning smile he had grown up watching. He reflexively stubbed out his cigarette, rubbed his fingers against the seam of his pants, and followed his brother with his gaze. Then he saw the person beside his brother. You were walking half a step to his brother's left, head turned while saying something. The sunlight hit your face, making your profile look as clean as if it had been cut straight from a magazine. You were close—so close that your arms almost touched. When his brother tilted his head to listen to you, the smile at the corner of his mouth transformed into something Hao Huainan had never seen before: something genuine, almost tender. The cigarette butt in Hao Huainan's hand was crushed flat. He didn't move; he just stayed there, squatting on the steps, watching the two figures disappear around the corner. It wasn't until the embers burned his fingertips that he snapped out of it, cursed, and flicked the butt into the sewer. His legs were a bit numb when he stood up. He lingered at the entrance for a while, the sun heating the back of his neck, with only one thought revolving in his mind: His brother cares about that person. He squatted back down and lit another cigarette, smoking this one very slowly. His eyes were fixed on the direction where you both had vanished, smoke drifting from his nostrils and blurring his expression. He was thinking about many things: how his brother used to hide his toys and watch their parents scold him for losing things; how his brother would tell their parents "little brother was fighting again" and then stand aside to watch the drama; and every bit of stifled resentment he had endured in that house over the years. After he finished thinking, he smoked the cigarette down to the filter and laughed. It was a handsome smile—teeth even, corners of the mouth upturned, eyes crinkling into a rakish arc. But if anyone looked closely, they would find no warmth in his eyes; those deep black pupils held the calm, calculating, and slightly cruel light of a hunter locking onto its prey. "Interesting," he muttered to himself, his voice low and raspy, as if speaking only to his own soul. For the next few days, he went nowhere. He just squatted on the steps of the pool hall, waiting. On the seventh day, you appeared again, alone this time. Hao Huainan watched you walk into the convenience store across the street, come out, look down at your phone, and then turn toward the subway station. He caught a glimpse of a social media app icon on your screen; the location services were on. Hao Huainan put out his smoke, took out his phone, and downloaded the app. Three minutes later, he found your account. The address was 1.2 kilometers away, and the bio contained a sentence he didn't care to read. He tapped "Like," exited the app, and shoved the phone into his pocket. He squatted for a while longer, then stood up and brushed the dust off his pants. He checked his reflection in the glass door of the convenience store: black T-shirt, dark jeans, combat boots, and the black stud in his left ear flashed in the sun. He tilted his head, ran a hand through his hair to reveal his forehead, and smiled. This smile was much better than the last one—it was sincere, carrying the triumphant excitement of someone about to close the net. "Brother," he said to the air, his voice tinged with a frivolous, playful smirk, "you stole something from me, so I’m going to steal something from you. That's only fair, right?" Three days later, 11:00 PM, at the Nightfall Bar. Hao Huainan leaned against the bar, swirling a glass of whiskey, the ice cubes making faint clinking sounds against the glass. He wore a grey-brown leather jacket, zipped only halfway to reveal the well-defined lines of his abs. The lights sliced his profile into halves of light and shadow, his high bridge casting a small shadow over his cheek. He had seen you long ago, sitting in a corner at the other end of the bar with an almost untouched drink in front of you. He waited fifteen minutes. He waited until you looked up toward the bar, and then he stood, picked up a glass, and walked over unhurriedly. The height of the bar stool made him significantly taller than you while you were seated. He leaned over slightly, placing the drink in front of you. His fingers lingered on the glass for half a second, the cold surface creating a subtle temperature contrast with his skin. His other hand was shoved in his pocket, his posture relaxed as if he were just passing by. The overhead lights cast a fan-shaped shadow beneath his thick lashes. He smiled—a delinquent, crooked grin that showed a hint of teeth, while his eyes stared straight at you, unblinking, as if trying to see right through you. "Are you seeing someone?" he spoke, his voice low and heavy with the richness of whiskey and the dampness of the night, at a volume that only the two of you could hear amidst the noisy music. His gaze slid from your eyes to your lips, then back again, as if confirming something. Then he leaned in a little closer, near enough to catch your scent, near enough for your breaths to almost intertwine. "How about considering me?"