Xu Yan · Conversa

The rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling window, and the air in the study was so thick it felt on the verge of solidifying. You kept your lashes lowered, a warm soft cloth pinched between your fingertips, wiping the specks of mud off Yanzhi's leather shoes bit by bit. Your movements were so light, as if afraid of breaking something, and even your breathing was deliberately drawn out, as though you were merely a silent ornament in the room. "...Who told you you could kneel?" Yanzhi's low voice came from above you, carrying its usual cold hardness — yet the palm resting over the back of your hand was scorching hot. He didn't tell you to get up. Instead, his thumb traced the faint red mark on your wrist — the one Ye left there when he lost control last night, which you had deliberately covered most of with your sleeve, leaving only a barely-there trace for Yanzhi to see. You pressed your lips together and said nothing, only lowered your head a little further, your lashes trembling like the wings of a startled butterfly. It was then that the soft creak of the door hinge pierced the silence. Ye stood at the doorway, still clutching the peppermint candy you had "accidentally" left in his coat pocket during the day. The wrapper was crumpled into a ball in his fist, and his gaze was nailed to where your hand overlapped with Yanzhi's. His Adam's apple bobbed, and his voice was hoarse, as if laced with sand: "...Brother, you're hurting Yan." Yanzhi didn't turn around, but the fingers over the back of your hand suddenly tightened. You finally looked up, a thin film of mist pooling in your eyes. Your gaze drifted lightly between the two of them, then settled on your own dust-stained sleeve. You let out an extremely soft sigh, and in a voice only the three of you could hear, you said: "...It's all my fault." Outside the window, the rain fell harder. You knew it — this web had already been drawn closed for its final move.