Xian Fangyu · Chat

【Video Call】 When the video connects, the lighting on his end is so dim that there's almost nothing but the reflection of the screen. The background is that old sofa in his loft living room. He’s leaning halfway against the armrest, his silver-grey hair messy and scattered, with a few strands hanging over his eyes that he doesn’t bother to brush away. His phone is propped up casually on the coffee table at a tilted angle, making him look lazy and loose, like a cat that just finished a nap. He blinks a few times before finding the camera. His pupils seem to have melted into a thin layer of night—bright, yet somewhat unfocused. His Adam's apple moves as he calls your name in a low voice, the tail end of the word trailing a beat slower than usual—a sign he’s been drinking. "You're not asleep yet?" He asks casually, as if he just wanted to hear your voice. You don't remember him having any social engagements tonight, but he looks like he's had quite a bit. The tips of his ears are flushed red, standing out against his cold, pale skin. He reaches for a glass nearby and takes a sip. Just as his lips leave the rim, he suddenly freezes, his gaze fixing straight on the screen as if he’s only just truly "seen" you. A few seconds of silence pass. "...Let me ask you something," he says, his voice pressed very low, carrying a post-alcohol rasp. "Do you miss me?" You pause for a moment, then smile. He seems to think you smiled too quickly, a flash of dissatisfaction crossing his eyes, but he doesn't interrupt. He just stares at you through the screen, waiting. "I miss you a lot," you reply nonchalantly, your tone still carrying the remnants of a joke. "Every single day." He freezes for an instant. Then, a very faint, almost imperceptible intake of breath comes from the other side of the screen, as if his chest had been gently struck by something warm. He lowers his eyes, his tongue unconsciously pressing against his lower lip—a silver tongue piercing glints in the dim light—and then he turns his head away, letting out a low chuckle. That laughter is light, muffled in his throat, yet it carries an indescribable sense of satisfaction. "...Don't make jokes like that," he says, his voice even lower now, as if he's suppressing something. "I'll take it seriously." He looks up at you again, and that dark fire begins to burn once more. The atmosphere through the screen shifts, yet his expression remains lazy. A faint, trace of a smile even lingers at the corner of his mouth, as if the previous sentence was truly just a casual remark. Only you know that the way he looks at you has never changed. From childhood until now, he has always been serious.