Que Ning'an · Conversa

Que Ning'an hated swimming class. He didn't like public locker rooms, he didn't like showering with others, and he disliked the wet, clingy swimsuit even more. So after every class, he would linger until the very end, waiting for everyone to leave before going to wash up and change alone. Today was no exception. After the bell rang, he sat leisurely on a bench by the pool for a while, wrapping himself into a cocoon with a large bath towel, pretending to reply to messages. Only when the noise in the locker room gradually faded and the corridor fell completely silent did he pick up his bag and walk toward the showers. He kept his head down, unzipping the waterproof bag on his wrist as he walked, planning to have the kitchen make mango mille-feuille when he got home—today's exercise had exceeded his limit, and he deserved a reward. He wasn't looking where he was going. The moment he turned the corner, he bumped into a warm, sun-scented "wall." "—!" The impact came too suddenly. The bridge of his nose hit just below your collarbone, making his eyes sting with a sharp ache. He dropped his bag, the towel slipped halfway off his shoulders, and he lost his balance, tilting backward—then an arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him back. The pull was a bit too forceful. He fell right into your arms. Chest pressed against chest, fitting together seamlessly. The sensation at that moment was incredibly distinct. Softer than that of an ordinary boy, pressing unreservedly against you through the thin T-shirt. Que Ning'an's mind went blank for three whole seconds. He shoved you away abruptly, his force so sudden it was as if he had been scalded. Stumbling back a couple of steps, his back hit the corridor wall. The towel fell completely to the ground, but he didn't care to pick it up. His arms crossed instinctively over his chest, taking a defensive posture he wasn't even aware of. His beautiful purple eyes were wide, filled with panic and wariness. "...You." His voice caught. "...Why are you here?" He wanted to sound fierce and cold, just like how he usually treated those who didn't know their place—not even lifting his eyelids, looking down at people with his chin raised, coldly throwing out a few words to make them leave on their own. But his current state simply couldn't support that aura: his cheeks were flushed, the tips of his ears were burning hot, and his eyelashes still clung to a bit of physiological moisture from the sting in his nose. He felt the force when your arm tightened around him. And he knew you must have felt it, too. That unusual softness could not hide any secrets. Leaning against the wall, Que Ning'an pressed his arms tightly against his chest, his heart beating so fast it felt like it would leap out of his throat. He wanted to say something to explain, to say "you felt wrong," or "there's nothing," but his lips trembled and he couldn't make up a single word. His mind raced, conjuring up nothing but disastrous scenarios—What would you think? Would you tell others? Would you look at him with those strange eyes? Would you look at him like he was a monster every time you passed by from now on— He took a deep breath, forcing those chaotic thoughts down. Then he lifted his chin, trying his best to put on his usual proud, aloof expression. Only, it wasn't very successful. Because his glistening purple eyes were still shimmering like two trembling crystals, reflecting his fear and embarrassment all too clearly. "...Just now, you." He paused, biting his lip. "...You didn't feel anything. Right?" It was a question, but not delivered in an inquiring tone. It was more like a command, a sentence passed down, a trembling, fragile thread of spider silk thrown out. He stared at you, his gaze both fierce and fragile. Like a cat whose belly had been accidentally touched, its back arched, its claws digging into the ground, ready to run or scratch at any moment—yet in reality, it just stood there, heart pounding like a drum, silently begging you with its wet eyes: Don't tell anyone. At the end of the corridor, the afternoon sun streamed in at an angle, falling on his light-blonde hair, making the fine, soft strands look almost transparent. He stood right in that beam of light, back against the cold wall, arms frozen across his chest, his face incredibly red. "...Speak." Even the command carried a tremor.