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Cold seeped into his very bones as trembling fingers brushed against the icy palm. They slid upwards, hesitant, almost reverent, and interlaced with others—a tentative, airy touch like the weaving of fragile threads. Mu Qing brought his clenched hands to his lips. A whisper, hot and damp, ghosted over his skin, offering no warmth—his hands remained frozen, like river stones in winter. The blanket thrown over his body, curled into a pitiful ball, was a mere phantom, useless against the chill. The apartment hung suspended in a deathly silence, thick with cold and the desolate ache of solitude. In this frozen wasteland, only one insistent, fractured whisper beat against the walls of his consciousness, a trapped bird fluttering wildly:
“It’s alright… I’m not alone. It’s alright, isn’t it? Everything will… everything will be fine, because I’m not alone…”
Bitter irony choked him. Mu Qing was alone. Utterly, devastatingly alone. Always had been, and it seemed, always would be. Friends? A mirage dissolved by his proud, thorny nature. Love? An unreachable star for one who buried his feelings deep within the catacombs of his soul. Easier to don the mask of composure, even when blizzards raged inside, even when his very marrow froze. "I'm warm," he'd declare with feigned confidence, only to spend hours later trying to coax feeling back into his perpetually cold fingers.
And now—a futile attempt. To find warmth, to still the tremor, to silence the whirlwind in his chest. Hopeless. The fight with Xie Lian had erupted with such ferocity that a wall of silence now stood between them. Though fear gnawed at Mu Qing’s insides, he knew the truth: the blame was his. He had shattered the fragile bond with his silence, his unspoken thoughts. He’d tried to crack the door open… but something went awry. Or rather, someone had stepped between them. Xie Lian had his own life now, his own priorities, leaving no space for Mu Qing.
Did he have the right to complain? No. He was an outsider. The words, flung in anger, had settled on his heart like lead. An outsider couldn't lay claim to another’s space, time, or warmth. Submit. Fade into the shadows. Be silent.
“Poor paws…” A tiny, strangled sob escaped him. Mu Qing drove his knuckles into his lips until they hurt and plunged headfirst beneath the blanket, into the cramped shell of darkness.
The all-pervading cold raised goosebumps on his skin and encased his heart in an icy rind. He was broken. Discarded. An unwanted shard. The false warmth of the past only drove the splinters deeper—a cruel reminder of that happiness, that illusion of being needed, now crumbled to dust. A beaten, grimy kitten, shivering with cold and fear—that’s what he was. All he’d ever craved was warmth. Just one living soul beside him. But around him—emptiness. A desolate island.
An unexpected touch on the crown of his head, muffled by the blanket, jerked his entire body taut. Two scalding tears seared paths down his cheeks and vanished into the pillow. Alien fingers—cautious, questioning—settled on his head again, stroking through the barrier. What did it matter? Mu Qing hadn’t heard the door to his tiny studio apartment sigh open. Someone had breached his sanctuary and witnessed this tableau of despair.
He lay coiled tight, a forsaken creature. Tears flowed soundlessly; only ragged, hitching breaths and the fine tremor wracking his shoulders betrayed him. His fists, pressed white-knuckled to his lips, radiated tension. The blanket had slipped, revealing the dark silk of his hair fanned across the pillow like a somber halo.
“It’s alright… It’s me… I’m here.” A low, gravelly voice, achingly familiar, pierced the stillness. The sound of it made an old wound throb deep in his chest. The mattress dipped beneath a new weight. Large, solid hands, gentle yet inescapable, encircled him and pulled him against a source of incredible, searing heat—a stranger’s chest.
“Not true…” Mu Qing breathed out. His eyes prickled traitorously again, a fresh sob tightening his throat.
He was convinced—everyone had turned away. Especially Feng Xin. And again, it was his own fault. He’d reached for that warmth, that soul-deep connection, like a moth to flame, on that damp autumn evening.
They’d sat on a creaking children’s carousel, conversation flowing easy, their smiles warming the chill air. Rare dog-walkers and weary souls trudging home ignored them. Thankfully, the streetlights’ glow didn’t reach their secluded corner. Mu Qing had watched the relaxed, serene lines of Feng Xin’s face, and something within him had shifted. As if moving through fog, he’d asked permission… for something. Feng Xin had shot him a surprised look, softened by a wry smile, and nodded. Driven by sudden impulse, Mu Qing leaned in hesitantly… and pressed his lips to Feng Xin’s—through the ever-present barrier of his mask. A wave of scalding embarrassment washed over him. And then—stunningly—he felt an answering pressure. He wrenched himself back, gaze averted, muttering something incoherent that sounded like an apology.
Feng Xin had smirked—strangely, without the usual bite. Leaned closer… and left a kiss, light as a breath, upon his forehead. The world tilted. Mu Qing stood, dazed. Why? Why hadn’t he been pushed away? Why no mockery? No awkwardness… They’d parted almost in silence. Agreed to meet next week… Mu Qing hadn’t known then it would be the last time he saw Feng Xin.
A whole month. Thirty days of excruciating silence. Mu Qing’s fragile inner world endured a daily bombardment of fear and doubt. ‘Desperate!’ hissed an inner voice at the thought of messaging. ‘Pathetic!’ screamed something else when he yearned to see him. The craving to feel their fingers interlace again became unbearable… But—silence. Replies were scarce. Meetings unwanted. Because he’d ruined it. Even now, in this embrace, Mu Qing knew—it was a moment. Fleeting solace. It didn’t heal; it only laid the wound bare, a stark reminder that this warmth was phantom-thin and would soon dissolve into the same icy void.
“Even if you’re here… now…” Mu Qing’s voice broke into a ragged whisper; he burrowed into Feng Xin as if into a last refuge. “…It won’t last! You avoided me! Because I showed you… what I feel! Because it’s… wrong, disgusting, isn’t it?! Because you were repulsed! Because you wanted to be with anyone but me… Even Jian Lan…” His voice hitched painfully. “…I know… I know you see her every week…” With each accusation, fresh ice water seemed to trickle beneath his skin, tightening frozen manacles around his heart.
“You know,” Feng Xin’s voice was quiet but firm. He buried his nose in Mu Qing’s hair, making him freeze. “More people need to hear what’s inside you. Otherwise… they simply won’t know what makes your soul ache.”
Why? Who needed that? He only needed one. Just one who’d understand without words, who’d simply hold him, without judgment, without sharp jests, without reproachful glances. He knew—his temper was terrible. Prickly, volatile. He pushed everyone away himself. Even Xie Lian had turned his back—again, because of him.
“Whatever dark thoughts you’re spinning now…” Feng Xin spoke slowly, each word weighted with conviction. “…you matter. Deeply. Our talks… they mean something real to me. That night… I was thrown. Didn’t know how to act, what to say, how not to break what felt… fragile. But now…” A pause hung heavy, filled only by the frantic drumming of two hearts. “…Now I know. So…” Another beat of profound silence, thick with unspoken years and the precipice they stood upon. “…I like you, Mu Qing. Very much.