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The air in the hotel room felt suffocating. Wen-Bo sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, shoulders tense and rigid. The sharp glow of the television illuminated the darkened space, replaying highlights of the match he wished he could erase from memory. T1’s decisive victory against TES wasn’t just a loss—it was a reminder of everything he wasn’t.
There was a knock at the door, faint and hesitant. Wen-Bo didn’t move. The knock came again, louder this time, followed by the soft murmur of a voice he knew all too well.
“Wen-Bo, it’s me. Can I come in?”
He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He didn’t have the energy to argue. “Do what you want.”
The door creaked open, and the familiar figure of Tian stepped inside, his movements deliberate and slow as if gauging Wen-Bo’s mood from the weight of the silence in the room. He wasn’t dressed for bed yet, still in the team hoodie and track pants he’d been wearing all day, and he closed the door behind him softly.
“I figured you wouldn’t want to be alone,” Tian said, his voice quiet but steady.
Wen-Bo didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the floor, his jaw clenched tight enough to make his teeth ache. He could hear the soft shuffle of Tian’s footsteps as he approached, felt the mattress dip slightly when Tian sat down next to him. Too close, but not close enough to make him move.
“Look,” Tian began, his tone careful, “it’s a shitty loss. I know how much this meant to you, how much you wanted it. But—”
“Don’t.” Wen-Bo’s voice came out sharper than he intended, but he didn’t care. He straightened, his hands curling into fists on his thighs. “Don’t sit there and try to make it better. It’s not better. It’s not going to be better.”
Tian didn’t flinch, though Wen-Bo wished he would. He hated the way Tian’s eyes stayed soft, filled with that unbearable understanding.
“I’m not trying to make it better,” Tian said calmly. “I’m just—”
“What? You’re just what?” Wen-Bo snapped, his anger rising like a tide. “Here to hold my hand? To tell me it’s okay that I failed? That I’m not good enough? Because that’s what this is, Tian. I wasn’t good enough.”
His voice cracked on the last words, and he hated himself for it. He turned his head away, but he could feel Tian watching him, unwavering.
“You’re not a failure,” Tian said softly. “You know that.”
Wen-Bo laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and self-deprecating. “Yeah? Feels like it.”
Silence stretched between them. Wen-Bo expected Tian to leave, to give up on him like everyone else eventually did. But Tian stayed. He always stayed, no matter how many times Wen-Bo pushed him away.
“I’m not going to tell you it’s okay,” Tian said after a moment. “I know you don’t want to hear that. But you’re more than this loss, Wen-Bo. You know that, too, even if you don’t want to admit it.”
Wen-Bo wanted to argue, to lash out, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he stared at the carpet, his chest tight with frustration and something else he didn’t want to name.
Tian shifted closer, his knee brushing against Wen-Bo’s. It wasn’t much, just a small point of contact, but it was enough to make Wen-Bo tense.
“Talk to me,” Tian urged, his voice so gentle it made Wen-Bo’s skin crawl. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I don’t want to talk,” Wen-Bo muttered, his hands gripping his thighs so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Tian sighed, leaning back slightly. He didn’t push, but he didn’t leave either. Instead, he stayed right there, his presence both comforting and maddening.
The silence was heavy, but not unbearable. Wen-Bo could feel Tian’s steady breathing beside him, the warmth of his body so close. It made something in his chest ache, something he didn’t want to acknowledge. He hated the way Tian looked at him, like he wasn’t just a sum of his failures, like he was something more.
But that wasn’t allowed, was it? Not for him. Not for them.
“I don’t need your pity,” Wen-Bo said finally, his voice quieter now, almost defeated.
“It’s not pity,” Tian said simply. “It’s me caring about you. There’s a difference.”
Wen-Bo closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. He didn’t know what to do with that, with Tian’s unwavering care and patience. It felt like too much and not enough all at once.
“I hate this,” he admitted, barely above a whisper.
“I know,” Tian said.
And then Tian did something Wen-Bo didn’t expect. He reached out, his hand hovering uncertainly before resting gently on Wen-Bo’s back. It was a light touch, barely there, but it made Wen-Bo’s breath hitch.
He didn’t pull away. He didn’t know if he could.
There was something between them, something unspoken and fragile, and it terrified Wen-Bo more than the loss ever could. But for now, he let Tian stay, let him be the steady presence Wen-Bo didn’t know how to ask for but desperately needed.
And in the quiet of that hotel room, with the glow of the television casting soft shadows on the walls, Wen-Bo allowed himself, for just a moment, to lean into it.
The weight of Tian’s hand on Wen-Bo’s back was unbearable. Not because it hurt—no, Tian’s touch was light, cautious, and warm—but because it meant something. It meant something Wen-Bo wasn’t ready to name, wasn’t ready to feel.
His breath hitched as Tian’s palm moved slightly, just enough to be comforting, enough to make his heart pound painfully in his chest. A dozen thoughts collided in his head, sharp and jagged. This isn’t right. This isn’t normal. You shouldn’t want this.
Wen-Bo’s fists clenched tighter on his thighs, nails biting into his skin as if the pain could drown out everything else. But it couldn’t. It didn’t. The warmth of Tian’s hand was still there, grounding him, suffocating him.
“I’m here,” Tian murmured softly, and Wen-Bo hated him for it. Hated how genuine he sounded. Hated how much he wanted to believe him.
His entire body tensed, as if preparing for a fight, but there was no one to fight except himself. The tight coil of anger, shame, and confusion in his chest threatened to choke him. He shrugged Tian’s hand off, jerking away as if it burned.
“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. He didn’t look at Tian, couldn’t bear to see the hurt that was probably there. “I don’t need that. I don’t need you.”
Tian didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He stayed exactly where he was, quiet and calm, like he always was. It made Wen-Bo feel even worse.
“You’re allowed to be upset,” Tian said after a long pause. His voice was steady but softer now, as if he knew he was treading dangerous ground. “But pushing me away isn’t going to fix anything.”
“I’m not—” Wen-Bo cut himself off, his jaw tightening. He didn’t know what he was about to say, but it would’ve been a lie. “Just leave me alone.”
Tian sighed, the sound heavy with something Wen-Bo didn’t want to name. “You know I won’t.”
Wen-Bo hated how much that meant to him. Hated that Tian cared enough to stay, even when he didn’t deserve it.
He hated the way his body betrayed him, the way his heart leapt at Tian’s proximity, the way his skin burned where Tian had touched him. It was wrong. It had to be.
This isn’t you, a voice in his head snarled, sharp and accusatory. You’re not like this. You can’t be like this.
“Why are you even here?” Wen-Bo demanded, his voice cold and biting. “What do you want from me?”
Tian didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm. “I want you to stop tearing yourself apart.”
Wen-Bo laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and grating. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tian asked, his tone calm but edged with curiosity.
“It means—” Wen-Bo stopped himself again, the words catching in his throat. It means I don’t know how to handle this. It means I don’t know how to handle you.
“It means I don’t need you here,” he finished, but the words rang hollow, even to his own ears.
Tian’s gaze softened, and Wen-Bo hated that too. He wanted Tian to yell, to get angry, to leave. It would’ve been easier. But Tian stayed, his quiet persistence more maddening than any argument could’ve been.
“You don’t have to push me away,” Tian said gently. “It’s okay to let someone be here for you.”
“No, it’s not,” Wen-Bo snapped, his voice rising. He stood abruptly, pacing the small space of the room like a caged animal. “It’s not okay. None of this is okay. I’m not okay. And you—” He stopped, his chest heaving, his back turned to Tian. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m trying to,” Tian said softly. “Even if you don’t want me to.”
Wen-Bo pressed his hands to his face, his breathing uneven. The shame was suffocating, clawing at his throat like a vice. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t face this.
“It’s not—” He stopped again, his voice cracking. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”
Tian didn’t respond right away. When he finally did, his voice was soft but unwavering. “What’s not supposed to be like this?”
Wen-Bo didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words were there, clawing at the back of his throat, but they wouldn’t come out.
Tian stood slowly, approaching him with cautious steps. “Wen-Bo,” he said gently, and Wen-Bo hated how his name sounded coming from Tian’s lips. “It’s okay to feel things. Even if they scare you.”
“Stop,” Wen-Bo muttered, his voice barely audible. “Just stop.”
Tian hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he reached out, his hand brushing against Wen-Bo’s arm, grounding and gentle. Wen-Bo flinched but didn’t pull away this time.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Tian said quietly. “No matter how hard you try to push me away.”
Wen-Bo closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as he fought against the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He didn’t know what scared him more—the possibility that Tian meant it or the possibility that he didn’t.
And in the silence that followed, Wen-Bo let himself stand there, frozen and conflicted, as Tian stayed by his side.
The room was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that buzzed in Wen-Bo’s ears and made his skin crawl. He could feel Tian standing behind him, so close that the warmth of his presence seemed to seep into Wen-Bo’s own tense frame. He didn’t dare turn around.
But then Tian stepped closer—just a fraction, just enough that Wen-Bo could sense the movement. The air shifted, thick with something unsaid, something Wen-Bo couldn’t let himself name.
“Wen-Bo,” Tian murmured, his voice soft and almost tender. It made Wen-Bo’s stomach twist.
He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His breath hitched as he felt Tian lean in, closer than he’d ever been. The soft brush of Tian’s breath ghosted against his cheek, and Wen-Bo’s heart slammed against his ribs in a dizzying rhythm.
It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.
He turned his head sharply, their faces suddenly too close, and for a horrifying, electrifying moment, their gazes locked. Tian’s eyes were steady, searching, and Wen-Bo could see it—the want, the care, the thing he couldn’t admit he might feel too.
No. He couldn’t feel this. He couldn’t want this.
“What are you doing?” Wen-Bo snapped, his voice cracking under the strain.
Tian didn’t pull back. His expression softened, his hand brushing against Wen-Bo’s arm in that maddeningly gentle way. “I’m just—”
“Don’t.” Wen-Bo’s voice came out sharper, more desperate than he meant it to. He jerked away from Tian, stumbling back a step like he’d been burned. “Don’t do that.”
Tian froze, his hand falling back to his side. “Wen-Bo—”
“Get out.” The words came out cold, clipped, even as his chest felt like it might cave in. He couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t let Tian get any closer—not like this, not when it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.
Tian blinked, his lips parting as if to protest, but Wen-Bo cut him off. “I said get out.”
The hurt that flashed across Tian’s face was almost enough to make Wen-Bo take it back. Almost. But Tian didn’t argue. He hesitated for a moment, then nodded stiffly.
“Okay,” he said quietly, his voice unreadable.
Wen-Bo didn’t look at him as he left, the door clicking shut with a finality that left him standing alone in the suffocating silence once more.
The shower was freezing, the icy water biting against his skin, but Wen-Bo didn’t care. He stood under the spray, his hands braced against the slick tile wall, his head bowed as he tried to drown out the memory of Tian’s eyes, Tian’s voice, Tian’s touch.
His chest heaved as he sucked in shaky breaths, the cold doing nothing to quell the heat that had lodged itself deep in his body. He hated this. Hated the way Tian made him feel, the way his heart raced whenever Tian was near. Hated how badly he wanted—
No.
He pressed his forehead against the wall, the chill biting into his skin, but it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t smother the fire burning through him, couldn’t stop the way his body betrayed him.
He groaned low in his throat as he felt it—his body reacting in ways he couldn’t control, couldn’t stop. The cold water was supposed to help, but it didn’t. It only made the throbbing ache between his legs more unbearable, more humiliating.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice raw and desperate.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands curling into fists against the wall. He couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t think about him. But it was too late. Tian’s face was burned into his mind, his soft gaze, the way his lips had parted just slightly when they’d been so close.
Wen-Bo’s body tensed as he let out a shaky breath, shame flooding through him in a wave so strong it nearly made him sick. He hated himself for this, hated his weakness, hated that no amount of cold water could wash away the way Tian made him feel.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about him.
The hotel room was quiet now, the only sound the distant hum of the air conditioning. Wen-Bo sat on the edge of the bed, his hair still damp from the shower, staring at his phone screen. He’d opened and closed the messaging app at least ten times in the past twenty minutes, typing and deleting over and over. Each time, the words felt wrong—too defensive, too raw, too much.
But he couldn’t just leave it like this. Not with Tian.
Finally, he let out a shaky breath and started typing again. The words came slow, halting, but they felt closer to what he wanted to say.
Wen-Bo:
Sorry for earlier.
I shouldn’t have snapped at you.
He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. It wasn’t enough, but it was all he could manage. He hit send before he could second-guess himself and dropped the phone on the bed, rubbing a hand over his face as he waited.
The reply came quicker than he expected, the soft chime making his stomach flip.
Tian:
It’s okay. I get it.
I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.
Wen-Bo exhaled slowly, his chest easing slightly. Tian’s patience was always a double-edged sword—comforting and infuriating all at once. But tonight, it was easier to appreciate it.
Wen-Bo:
It’s not just the loss.
I mean, yeah, that sucks. But it’s not just that.
Tian:
I figured.
Do you want to talk about it?
Wen-Bo hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen. He didn’t know if he wanted to talk about it. Didn’t know if he could. But texting was easier—less vulnerable than Tian’s gaze, less suffocating than his presence.
Wen-Bo:
I don’t even know where to start.
Tian:
Start anywhere.
I’m not going to judge you, Wen-Bo.
That made him pause. His chest tightened, a knot of shame and fear twisting in his gut. But something about Tian’s words—his quiet reassurance, his refusal to push—made it a little easier to try.
Wen-Bo:
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
It’s like… when you’re around, I feel weird. Like I can’t think straight.
Tian:
Weird how?
The question was simple, but Wen-Bo’s fingers faltered as he tried to answer. How was he supposed to explain the way his chest ached whenever Tian looked at him? The way his breath caught when their knees brushed, or how he couldn’t stop thinking about the almost-kiss? How was he supposed to explain the shame that burned in his chest every time those thoughts crept in?
He typed and deleted three different messages before settling on something that felt safe enough.
Wen-Bo:
I don’t know. Like I’m not supposed to feel this way.
There was a pause—just long enough for Wen-Bo to start second-guessing everything—before Tian replied.
Tian:
There’s nothing wrong with the way you feel.
Wen-Bo:
You don’t get it. It’s not normal.
Tian:
Who says it’s not normal?
Because whoever it is, they’re wrong.
Wen-Bo’s chest tightened again, but this time it was less painful, more confusing. He stared at the screen, the weight of Tian’s words sinking in.
Wen-Bo:
I don’t know how to deal with it.
Tian:
You don’t have to deal with it alone.
I’m here, Wen-Bo. For whatever you need.
The knot in his chest loosened just a little, enough for him to take a shaky breath. Tian’s understanding, his patience—it was more than Wen-Bo deserved. But it was also what he needed.
He hesitated, then typed something he hadn’t planned to say.
Wen-Bo:
When you got close earlier, I… I panicked.
Tian:
I figured.
It’s okay. I shouldn’t have pushed.
Wen-Bo:
It wasn’t you. It was me. I just… I don’t know what I’m doing.
Tian:
You don’t have to know right now.
We can figure it out together, if you want.
Wen-Bo swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly as he typed his next message.
Wen-Bo:
I want to.
The next message from Tian came almost immediately.
Tian:
That’s all I needed to hear.
The conversation drifted after that, the tension easing as they exchanged lighter messages. Wen-Bo found himself relaxing, his fingers moving more easily over the keyboard. But the undercurrent of heat between them was still there, undeniable.
Wen-Bo:
I still hate how you look at me sometimes.
Tian:
Hate it? Or can’t stop thinking about it?
Wen-Bo’s breath hitched, his fingers freezing mid-typing. The bluntness of Tian’s reply sent a jolt through him, equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
Wen-Bo:
Fuck off.
Tian:
:)
Wen-Bo:
You’re so fucking annoying.
Tian:
But you don’t want me to leave.
Wen-Bo didn’t respond right away. His chest felt tight again, but this time it wasn’t from shame. He didn’t want Tian to leave—not now, not ever. And that terrified him.
But for once, he let the fear sit in the back of his mind as he typed his reply.
Wen-Bo:
No, I don’t.
The honesty felt like a weight lifted, even if only a little. Tian didn’t respond with words this time—just a simple heart emoji that made Wen-Bo roll his eyes and grin despite himself.
It was a start. Not perfect, not easy, but a start.
The return to China was quiet, almost unremarkable. TES arrived at the airport, a sea of tired faces met by a handful of fans and photographers, their flashes relentless as always. Wen-Bo kept his hood up, his face a careful mask of indifference, like nothing about the past few weeks had touched him. That was the only way he knew how to survive it.
Tian walked beside him, quiet as ever, though their usual camaraderie seemed forced. They didn’t talk much on the flight, exchanging only the bare minimum of words—about scrims, schedules, or whatever the coaching staff wanted to discuss.
By all accounts, they were back to normal.
Except they weren’t.
It always started the same way.
Wen-Bo would lie in bed, scrolling mindlessly through his phone, trying not to think about how empty his room felt now. He’d see Tian’s name in his chat list, his thumb hovering over it for just a second too long before he finally gave in and opened their thread.
Wen-Bo:
What are you doing?
The reply would come almost instantly, like Tian had been waiting.
Tian:
Thinking about you.
Wen-Bo always rolled his eyes at that. He hated how easily Tian said things like that, hated how his stomach flipped every time he read it.
But he didn’t stop.
Wen-Bo:
Don’t start with that shit.
Tian:
Why not? You like it.
Wen-Bo’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard, his body already starting to react in a way that made his face heat. He could still hear Tian’s voice in his head from that last night in the hotel, low and careful, like he was trying not to spook him. It was the same voice he imagined now, even though it was just text.
Wen-Bo:
You’re so fucking annoying.
Tian:
And yet you text me every night.
Wen-Bo didn’t reply right away. He hated how smug Tian could be, but he couldn’t deny it. He did text him every night. And he always stayed up far later than he should, talking about things he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud.
But tonight was different. Tonight, the silence stretched longer, the tension simmering just below the surface until Tian finally sent something that made Wen-Bo’s breath hitch.
Tian:
I miss you.
Wen-Bo’s chest tightened, the knot of shame and want twisting uncomfortably. He didn’t know how to deal with words like that, words that dug under his skin and stayed there.
Wen-Bo:
I saw you four hours ago.
Tian:
Not like that.
His face burned, his fingers tightening around his phone. He didn’t know what to say to that, but Tian didn’t wait for him to figure it out.
Tian:
Do you think about me when you’re alone?
Wen-Bo cursed under his breath, his body already betraying him at the thought. He didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to think about Tian lying in his own bed, his voice low and teasing, asking questions Wen-Bo wasn’t ready for.
But the words were out before he could stop himself.
Wen-Bo:
Sometimes.
The reply was immediate, and Wen-Bo hated how much he liked the idea of Tian grinning at his screen, already crafting his next move.
Tian:
What do you think about?
Wen-Bo’s breath hitched, his face flushing with equal parts frustration and arousal. He pressed his head back against his pillow, his chest heaving as his fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Wen-Bo:
You’re so fucking shameless.
Tian:
Answer the question.
Wen-Bo groaned, his free hand dragging down his face as he typed out his reply, his heart pounding in his chest.
Wen-Bo:
Your hands.
There was a pause, long enough to make Wen-Bo’s stomach twist with anticipation and dread, before Tian responded.
Tian:
What about them?
Wen-Bo cursed again, his body burning with a heat he couldn’t ignore. He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers trembling slightly as he typed.
Wen-Bo:
The way they feel. On me.
He barely had time to breathe before Tian’s reply came through, the words sending a jolt straight to his core.
Tian:
Do you want to feel them again?
Wen-Bo’s heart raced, his body reacting in ways he couldn’t control. He should’ve stopped. He should’ve closed the app, thrown his phone across the room, done anything to stop this spiral.
But he didn’t.
Wen-Bo:
Yes.
The next message was a voice note. Wen-Bo stared at it for a long moment, his hand hovering over the play button, his chest tight with anticipation. When he finally pressed it, Tian’s voice filled the silence of his room—low and teasing, with just the faintest edge of something darker.
“I’d do more than just touch you, Wen-Bo. You know that, right?”
Wen-Bo’s breath came out in a shaky exhale, his body trembling as he clenched his phone in his hand. He hated how much he wanted it, hated how much he wanted him.
But most of all, he hated that he couldn’t stop.
Every night, they pretended it was just texts, just words on a screen. And every day, they acted like nothing had changed.
But it had. It always did.
The dim glow of the practice room monitors cast faint reflections across Wen-Bo’s face as he tried to focus on the scrim draft in front of him. The coach was talking about lane priorities and jungle pathing, but the words barely registered in Wen-Bo’s head. His phone buzzed in his pocket again, a familiar vibration that he’d been trying—and failing—to ignore for the past ten minutes.
He knew who it was. He didn’t need to look.
His fingers twitched against his mouse, his eyes flickering down to his lap for the briefest of moments before snapping back to the screen. The buzz came again, insistent, tempting. He gritted his teeth, his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest as he fought the urge to pull his phone out under the desk.
Finally, the coach turned to their mid, asking a question about lane phase rotations, and Wen-Bo seized the opportunity. He leaned back slightly, slipping his phone out of his pocket as discreetly as possible. The lock screen flashed, revealing the notifications that had been his undoing all day.
Tian:
I can’t stop thinking about last night.
Tian:
About the way you sounded.
Wen-Bo’s throat tightened, his fingers hovering over the screen as his face flushed. He clenched his jaw, his chest burning with a mix of frustration and something he didn’t want to name.
Another message appeared, and Wen-Bo’s breath caught in his throat.
Tian:
What would you do if I touched you right now?
His grip on the phone tightened, his heart racing as his eyes darted around the room. No one was paying attention to him, their focus on the screen and the coach’s words, but it didn’t matter. He felt exposed, like everyone could see the heat crawling up his neck, the way his body reacted despite his best efforts to ignore it.
He shouldn’t reply. He knew that. But his thumb betrayed him, opening the chat before he could stop himself.
Wen-Bo:
What the fuck are you doing? We’re in scrims.
The reply came almost instantly, and Wen-Bo could practically hear Tian’s low, teasing voice in his head.
Tian:
Just thinking about you.
Can you blame me?
Wen-Bo bit down on the inside of his cheek, his legs shifting under the desk as he tried to focus on anything but the heat pooling in his stomach. His hand curled into a fist on the desk, his knuckles white as he forced himself to look at the screen again.
It was useless.
His phone buzzed again, and this time the message hit like a gut punch.
Tian:
You’d look so good like this. Flushed, panting, trying to stay quiet while everyone’s around.
Wen-Bo’s entire body tensed, his breath coming out in a sharp exhale as his face burned. He locked his phone and shoved it back into his pocket like it was a live grenade, his mind racing with equal parts anger and something far more dangerous.
“Jackey?” The coach’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and expectant.
Wen-Bo blinked, his eyes snapping back to the screen. “What?”
“I asked if you’re comfortable with the lane matchup,” the coach said, his brow furrowed.
“Yeah,” Wen-Bo said quickly, his voice tight. “It’s fine.”
The coach didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Wen-Bo ducked his head, his hands gripping his mouse and keyboard like they were his lifeline.
He didn’t check his phone again for the rest of the scrim block. He couldn’t.
But the words stayed with him, replaying in his mind like a loop he couldn’t escape. The heat in his chest didn’t fade, and neither did the shame that came with it.
Later that night, back in his hotel room, Wen-Bo stared at his phone, the unread messages from Tian glowing softly on the screen. His fingers hovered over the chat, his chest tight as he debated whether to open it.
He hated this. Hated how Tian made him feel. Hated how much he wanted to open the messages, to keep the conversation going.
But most of all, he hated that no matter how much he fought it, he couldn’t stop thinking about Tian.
With a shaky breath, he opened the chat.
Wen-Bo:
You’re such a fucking asshole.
The reply came almost immediately, and Wen-Bo’s breath hitched as he read it.
Tian:
But you don’t want me to stop, do you?
Wen-Bo closed his eyes, his phone trembling in his hand. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. Tian already knew the answer.
Wen-Bo felt the phone buzz in his pocket once again the next game, his fingers twitching instinctively toward it, but he forced them to stay on the keyboard. The game was mid-scrim, after all—no time to check. Yet, his mind drifted. He knew who it was.
When the match ended, he leaned back in his chair, an exaggerated sigh escaping as he reached for his phone. The text notification glared at him like a dare.
Tian:
What are you up to tonight?
A heat bloomed in Wen-Bo’s chest, running straight to his face, and he swallowed hard. He shouldn’t reply, shouldn’t even think about it, but—
Wen-Bo:
Practicing.
The response was clipped, blunt. It didn’t deter Tian.
Tian:
Practicing what? Your wave clear or something else? ;)
His chest tightened. The smirk he could practically see on Tian’s face from across the gaming house sent a shiver of something unwanted down his spine. He hated the effect Tian had on him, hated how a single teasing text like that could—
No. He clenched his jaw, locking his phone and tossing it onto the desk. Focus. But the damage was already done.
It didn’t take long before the next scrim started, and he felt the tension again, but this time it wasn’t just the game. It was the uncomfortable pressure in his jeans, the way his focus kept slipping. One missed CS turned into a blown engage. His coach’s voice echoed in his ears.
“Wen-Bo, what the hell was that?”
His knuckles tightened around the mouse, his teeth grinding audibly. The scrim ended, predictably, in failure, and the post-game discussion only deepened the pit in his stomach. He avoided everyone’s gaze, even as he felt one particular pair of eyes lingering on him longer than the rest.
It was Tian. Always Tian.
Later, during the review session, Tian leaned over his shoulder. “You okay? You’re all—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Wen-Bo snapped, his voice harsh enough to cut the air between them.
Tian blinked, taken aback. “What’s your problem?”
Wen-Bo’s lips curled in an ugly sneer, his voice lowering but no less venomous. “Maybe if you stopped acting like such a faggot, people would want to talk to you.”
The words hung in the air like poison, the room falling silent as heads turned toward them. Tian’s face flickered with something—hurt, confusion, maybe anger—but he recovered quickly, standing straighter and brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve.
“That’s funny,” Tian said softly, though the tightness in his tone betrayed him. “Because last I checked, you’re the one who—”
“Don’t,” Wen-Bo cut him off, his voice trembling. He shoved Tian’s hand away when it moved toward him. “Just… don’t.”
The room stayed quiet as Tian backed off, his expression unreadable, but the damage was already done.
Wen-Bo sat there, breathing hard, his hands balled into fists on the desk. He didn’t look at anyone, especially not Tian. Shame curled in his stomach, making him want to vomit, but he shoved it down, letting the anger take its place instead.
Tian didn’t say anything for the rest of the session. Neither did Wen-Bo.
Wen-Bo could feel the silence like a weight pressing down on his chest.
Tian always talked during scrims—his voice was a constant, a rhythm Wen-Bo had taken for granted. It wasn’t just comms. It was the small comments, the jokes between plays, the steady hum of his presence. But today, there was nothing.
No “Good play” when Wen-Bo finally landed a clean ult. No “You’ve got this” when a 2v2 looked grim. Just silence.
Wen-Bo tried not to let it show, but his jaw tightened every time he glanced at Tian’s name on the minimap and heard… nothing. The absence was louder than any comm he could have made.
“Where’s your call, Meiko?” their coach barked, his voice sharp and cutting through the tension. “That’s a free dive, why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t see it,” Tian replied, his tone flat. His eyes didn’t leave the screen.
It was a lie. Wen-Bo knew it, and judging by the way the coach’s frown deepened, so did everyone else.
The rest of the scrim played out in the same suffocating quiet. Tian was doing his job, but it felt mechanical—like he was going through the motions. His movements were clean, his mechanics sharp, but the heart of his play, the connection they’d always had, was gone. It was like playing with a stranger.
Wen-Bo hated it.
By the end of the session, he couldn’t take it anymore. As the others began to file out for a break, Wen-Bo stayed rooted in his seat, pretending to review his gameplay. He wasn’t. He was waiting.
When Tian finally stood, Wen-Bo followed, catching him in the hallway. “Hey.”
Tian paused but didn’t turn around. “What?”
It wasn’t like him. The usual warmth in his voice was absent, replaced with something distant, something cold.
Wen-Bo swallowed hard. “Come on, man. You’re not even talking to me now?”
Tian turned then, his expression unreadable but his eyes betraying him. There was a flicker of something raw there—something Wen-Bo wished he could unsee. “What do you want me to say?” Tian asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Wen-Bo admitted, his voice dropping. “Just… something. Anything.”
Tian huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t get it, do you? You said that shit yesterday, and now you want me to act like nothing happened? Like you didn’t—” His voice cracked, and he cut himself off, turning away. “Forget it.”
“Tian, wait,” Wen-Bo said, his voice rising. He grabbed Tian’s arm, but Tian wrenched it free, the motion sharper than Wen-Bo expected.
“I can’t do this right now,” Tian muttered, not looking back as he walked away.
Wen-Bo stood there, his hand still half-raised, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world.
The next scrim was worse.
Tian didn’t comm. Not once. Even the coach was starting to lose patience, his frustration boiling over into the review. “If you’re not going to communicate, we might as well not even scrim,” he snapped.
“Sorry,” Tian said, his voice clipped. He didn’t even try to explain this time. He just stared at the screen, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller.
Wen-Bo watched it all unfold, his stomach twisting. This was his fault. He knew it. The words he’d thrown at Tian—spiteful and ugly—were still echoing in his head, over and over like a curse he couldn’t escape.
He tried, in his own clumsy way, to fix it. When the team broke for lunch, Wen-Bo slid into the seat next to Tian, forcing a smile. “Yo. You’re still stuck on that dive, huh? It wasn’t even your fault.”
Tian didn’t look at him. “Sure.”
Wen-Bo’s smile faltered. “I’m serious. You carried that game, man.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Tian said, his tone flat. He got up and left before Wen-Bo could say anything else.
It stung. Wen-Bo wasn’t used to Tian brushing him off. Hell, he wasn’t used to Tian being anything other than… Tian. Sweet, dependable Tian, always there with a dumb joke or a kind word.
Now, that Tian was gone, and Wen-Bo didn’t know how to get him back.
That night, lying in bed, Wen-Bo stared at the ceiling, his phone clutched in his hand. He wanted to text Tian, to say something—anything—but every time he started typing, he deleted the words before they could take shape.
The silence between them was unbearable, but the thought of saying the wrong thing again was worse.
He hated himself for what he’d said. He hated that he’d taken his own confusion, his own bullshit, and used it to hurt the one person who didn’t deserve it.
Wen-Bo rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, his chest tight with something he couldn’t name. He didn’t cry—he refused to—but the ache in his chest didn’t go away.
And neither did the silence.
Wen-Bo sat on the edge of his bed as he got up, the glow of his phone illuminating his flushed face. He tossed the device onto the mattress and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His chest felt tight, his body thrumming with an energy he couldn’t shake.
The thought had been creeping into his mind all day. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to focus on scrims or distract himself with solo queue, it was there. Tian’s face. His voice. The way his lips had felt, soft and deliberate, the night before.
“Fuck,” Wen-Bo muttered, dragging a hand down his face. He was trying to avoid this, trying to bury the thoughts like he always did. But it wasn’t working. It never worked with Tian.
He fell back onto the bed, his hand trailing to his waistband before he could stop himself. His boxers were already uncomfortably tight, his body betraying him even as his mind screamed at him to stop. He hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding as shame clawed at his chest, but then he gave in, his hand slipping beneath the fabric.
It didn’t take much for his mind to wander. It never did. The image of Tian kneeling between his legs came back unbidden, vivid and raw. The way he’d looked up through his glasses, his gaze steady and dark, his lips slick and red. Wen-Bo’s breath hitched, his hand tightening around himself as he tried—and failed—to think about anything else.
“Fuck,” he muttered again, his voice low and strained. His hips bucked slightly, his hand moving faster as the memory consumed him. It wasn’t just Tian’s mouth—it was everything. The way he’d touched him, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize every reaction. The way he’d murmured Wen-Bo’s name, low and breathy, like it was the only thing that mattered.
Wen-Bo’s chest heaved, his free hand gripping the sheets as his body tensed. He didn’t want this—didn’t want to feel this—but it was too late. His mind was already there, stuck on the way Tian had felt beneath him, warm and open and fucking perfect.
“Goddamn it,” Wen-Bo hissed, his voice cracking as he squeezed his eyes shut. He could almost hear Tian’s voice, calm and teasing, whispering in his ear. Could almost feel the way Tian’s hands had gripped his hips, grounding him, steadying him.
His body trembled, his breathing uneven as he hurtled toward the edge, the image of Tian’s lips, his hands, his fucking *everything* burned into his mind. And when he finally came, his back arching off the bed, Tian’s name slipped from his lips before he could stop it.
The silence that followed was deafening. Wen-Bo lay there, his chest heaving, his hand still loosely wrapped around himself as the realization sank in.
He’d been thinking about Tian. He’d been *wanting* him.
“Fuck,” he muttered one last time, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand covered his face, his cheeks burning with shame and something else he didn’t want to name.
Because for all the guilt, for all the confusion and frustration, one thing was painfully clear:
He didn’t just want Tian.
He might even love him.
Wen-Bo stood outside Tian’s door, the soft glow of the hallway light casting faint shadows across his face. His chest felt tight, his breath uneven as he clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. He didn’t know what he was doing here—what he even wanted to say—but his feet had carried him down the hall before he’d fully processed the decision.
His mind was a storm. Images of Tian flickered through his thoughts, unrelenting. The way he looked earlier that day, quiet and distant during scrims, his usual warmth nowhere to be found. The way his voice had been calm but cold whenever he answered Wen-Bo’s questions. The way his glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose last night, fogged as he—
Wen-Bo swallowed hard, shaking his head as if he could dislodge the memory. Fuck, he thought, dragging a hand through his hair. What the hell am I doing?
But before he could talk himself out of it, his knuckles rapped lightly on the door.
The silence that followed was deafening. For a moment, Wen-Bo thought maybe Tian was asleep, maybe he wouldn’t answer, and Wen-Bo could slink back to his room and pretend this never happened. But then the door creaked open, and there he was.
Tian stood in the doorway, his hair slightly messy from sleep, his glasses perched crookedly on his nose. He wasn’t wearing his usual hoodie—just a simple shirt and sweats that somehow made him look softer, more vulnerable. Wen-Bo’s breath caught in his throat as their eyes met, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Tian’s brow furrowed slightly, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight of Wen-Bo standing there, clearly frazzled and out of place. “Wen-Bo?” he said softly, his voice thick with sleep. “What are you doing?”
Wen-Bo opened his mouth, but no words came out. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his chest heaving as he tried to pull himself together. But Tian was looking at him—really looking at him—and it was too much. His mind was screaming at him to say something, anything, but all he could think was, Fuck, he’s so pretty.
“Can I…” Wen-Bo’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, his cheeks burning as he forced himself to meet Tian’s gaze. “Can I come in?”
Tian hesitated, his hand tightening on the doorframe. Wen-Bo could see the hurt lingering in his eyes, a flicker of doubt that made Wen-Bo’s chest ache. But after a moment, Tian stepped aside, pushing the door open wider. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Come in.”
Wen-Bo slipped inside, the door clicking shut softly behind him. The room was dimly lit by the faint glow of Tian’s computer monitor, the air heavy with the quiet intimacy of the night. Wen-Bo hovered near the door, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he struggled to find the right words.
Tian leaned against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed as he watched Wen-Bo with a mix of curiosity and caution. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice steady but soft. “It’s late.”
Wen-Bo swallowed hard, his throat dry as he fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I… I couldn’t stop thinking.”
Tian’s brow furrowed, his gaze softening slightly. “Thinking about what?”
“About you,” Wen-Bo said before he could stop himself. His face flushed, his hands tightening into fists as he forced himself to keep going. “About last night. About what I said.”
Tian’s shoulders tensed, his expression guarded. “You don’t have to apologize again,” he said, his tone careful. “You already did.”
“That’s not…” Wen-Bo shook his head, his chest tightening. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, I do, but it’s not just that.”
Tian tilted his head slightly, his curiosity outweighing his caution. “Then what do you mean?”
Wen-Bo took a shaky breath, his hands trembling as he stepped closer. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I don’t know how to… feel this. But I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Tian’s eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his face before it softened into something more vulnerable. “Wen-Bo—”
“I know it’s fucked up,” Wen-Bo said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I know I hurt you. I know I’m a mess. But I can’t—” He stopped, his throat tightening as he fought to keep his voice steady. “I can’t stop wanting you.”
The silence that followed was heavy, the air between them charged with something unspoken. Wen-Bo’s chest ached, his body trembling as he waited for Tian to say something, anything.
After what felt like an eternity, Tian pushed off the desk, his footsteps quiet as he crossed the room. He stopped in front of Wen-Bo, his gaze steady and searching. “You’re an idiot,” he said softly, his voice carrying no malice. “But you’re my idiot.”
Wen-Bo’s breath hitched, his eyes widening as Tian reached up, his fingers brushing lightly against Wen-Bo’s jaw. “I’m still mad at you,” Tian continued, his voice low. “But I’m not going to push you away. Not if you’re here. Not if you’re trying.”
“I am,” Wen-Bo said quickly, his voice trembling. “I’m trying. I just—”
Tian silenced him with a soft press of his lips, the kiss slow and deliberate, full of the care and patience Wen-Bo had spent so long trying to avoid. Wen-Bo froze for a moment, his mind screaming at him to pull away, but his body betrayed him. His hands came up to grip Tian’s waist, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss, his chest heaving with a mix of relief and longing.
Tian pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Wen-Bo’s, his breath warm against his skin. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmured, his voice soft but certain. “Together.”
The kiss lingered in the air, the faint warmth of Tian’s touch still buzzing against Wen-Bo’s lips. He pulled back, chest heaving, his hands trembling where they rested on Tian’s waist. For a moment, he thought about leaning back in, about letting himself get lost in the warmth and calm Tian offered.
But then reality hit him like a punch to the gut.
Wen-Bo stumbled back, his hands dropping to his sides as he turned away, his heart racing. “I can’t do this,” he muttered, his voice strained. “I can’t.”
Tian frowned, the confusion and hurt clear on his face. “Wen-Bo—”
“No.” Wen-Bo’s voice was sharp, his tone cutting through the room like a blade. He didn’t look at Tian, couldn’t bear to see the expression on his face. “This… this isn’t supposed to happen. We’re not supposed to happen.”
Tian took a step closer, his movements cautious, careful. “Who says we’re not supposed to?” he asked softly. “You’re allowed to feel things, Wen-Bo. You’re allowed to want things.”
Wen-Bo laughed bitterly, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Not this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Not you. Not me. This isn’t—” He stopped, his throat tightening as shame clawed at his chest. “This isn’t normal.”
Tian’s brows furrowed, his expression softening as he stepped closer. “Who told you that?”
“My parents,” Wen-Bo snapped, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Everyone. It’s how I was raised, okay? It’s what I’ve always been told. That this is wrong. That I’m wrong.”
His voice broke on the last word, and he turned away, his shoulders tense as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. The room felt suffocating, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down on him like a vice.
Tian hesitated, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides before he finally spoke. “You’re not wrong,” he said softly. “You’ve never been wrong. The way you feel—what we are—it’s not wrong, Wen-Bo. It’s just… you.”
“Stop.” Wen-Bo’s voice was hoarse, raw with frustration and something else he couldn’t name. “You don’t get it. You didn’t grow up like I did. You didn’t spend your whole life hearing that people like this—people like us—are disgusting.”
Tian flinched at the words, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice gentle but firm. “I get that it’s hard,” he said. “I get that you’ve been taught to hate this, to hate yourself. But that doesn’t make it true.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Wen-Bo muttered, his head dropping into his hands. “It doesn’t matter what’s true or not. I can’t… I can’t be this. I can’t be with you.”
Tian’s chest tightened, the hurt flickering across his face before he forced it down. “Why not?”
“Because I can’t live like that!” Wen-Bo snapped, his voice rising. He turned to face Tian, his eyes burning with frustration and something close to desperation. “I can’t live being looked at like that. Being judged, being hated. I can’t—” His voice cracked, and he looked away, his shoulders sagging. “I can’t do that to myself. I can’t do that to you.”
Tian’s heart ached, but he kept his voice steady as he stepped closer. “You’re not doing anything to me,” he said softly. “I’m here, Wen-Bo. I’m choosing this. I’m choosing you.”
“Don’t,” Wen-Bo said sharply, his hands clenching into fists. “Don’t say that. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“I’m not trying to make it harder,” Tian said quietly. “I’m trying to make it better.”
“Well, you can’t,” Wen-Bo snapped, his voice trembling. “You can’t fix this. You can’t fix me.”
“You’re not broken,” Tian said firmly, his voice rising just enough to make Wen-Bo look at him. “You’re not broken, Wen-Bo. You’re scared. And that’s okay. But you don’t have to do this alone.”
“I’m not scared,” Wen-Bo muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes, you are,” Tian said, his tone softening again. “And it’s okay to be scared. But don’t let that fear stop you from being happy. Don’t let it stop you from being you.”
Wen-Bo’s chest tightened, his throat constricting as tears burned at the edges of his vision. “I can’t,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I just… I can’t.”
Tian’s shoulders sagged slightly, his chest aching as he took a step back. “Okay,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with something Wen-Bo couldn’t quite name. “If that’s what you need right now, I’ll give it to you.”
Wen-Bo’s hands shook at his sides, his gaze dropping to the floor as shame clawed at his chest. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.
Tian watched him for a long moment before letting out a soft sigh. “But just so you know,” he said, his voice quiet but steady, “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here, whenever you’re ready.”
Wen-Bo didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Instead, he turned and left the room, his chest aching as the door clicked shut behind him.
And for the first time in years, he let himself cry.
Wen-Bo was trying. Really, he was. But it was hard—impossible, even—when Tian was Tian. Sweet, quiet Tian, who still looked at him like he hadn’t said the worst thing imaginable. Who still showed up to scrims and gave his all, even if the banter they used to share was gone.
Tian had forgiven him. That much was obvious. But forgiveness wasn’t the same as forgetting, and every time Wen-Bo caught Tian’s gaze lingering on him during a review, he felt like he was being pulled apart piece by piece.
It didn’t help that Wen-Bo was starting to notice things—things he didn’t want to notice. Like the way Tian’s hair fell over his forehead when he leaned forward in his chair. Or the way his lips quirked up, just barely, when he landed a clutch play. Or the way his voice softened whenever he spoke, even now, even when Wen-Bo didn’t deserve it.
He was falling. Hard. And it was a problem.
The team was reviewing their most recent scrim when the coach paused the replay, his voice sharp. “Wen-Bo. You didn’t follow the call here. What were you looking at?”
“Uh—” Wen-Bo scrambled for an excuse, his eyes darting to the screen. He hadn’t even realized he’d missed the call, too busy watching Tian on the map. His hands gripped the edge of the desk, his ears burning.
“You need to focus,” the coach said, exasperated. “Tian can’t do everything for you.”
“I know,” Wen-Bo muttered, his gaze dropping to the desk.
Across the room, he felt Tian glance at him. It wasn’t judgmental or annoyed—it was something softer, something that made Wen-Bo’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain. He hated it. He hated how Tian could still look at him like that, like he wasn’t a complete mess.
When the review ended, Wen-Bo lingered, waiting for everyone else to leave. Tian stayed behind too, scrolling through his phone like he had all the time in the world.
Wen-Bo hesitated, his heart pounding. “Hey.”
Tian looked up, his expression calm, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity. “What’s up?”
“I just…” Wen-Bo rubbed the back of his neck, his words catching in his throat. “I wanted to say sorry. Again. For before. I know I’ve already said it, but—”
“Wen-Bo,” Tian interrupted, his tone gentle. “It’s okay. Really.”
“It’s not,” Wen-Bo said quickly, his voice rising. He took a step closer, his hands twitching at his sides. “I was an asshole. I said things I didn’t mean because I was—because I’m—”
“Confused?” Tian finished, his head tilting slightly.
Wen-Bo froze, his breath catching in his throat. “How do you—?”
“I’m not stupid,” Tian said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t mocking or cruel—just understanding. “I’ve known for a while.”
Wen-Bo’s heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He just stood there, staring at Tian, who was looking at him with so much patience it was almost unbearable.
“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” Tian said softly. “But maybe start by not hating yourself so much.”
The words hit Wen-Bo like a punch to the gut. He looked away, his throat tightening. “That’s… easier said than done.”
“I know,” Tian said. “But I’ll be here. If you need me.”
Wen-Bo’s chest ached, his pulse racing as Tian brushed past him, their shoulders barely touching. It was nothing, just a small, fleeting contact, but it set Wen-Bo’s nerves on fire.
He was in so much trouble.
The tension between them didn’t go unnoticed. The coach was the first to call it out during a team meeting. “JackeyLove, Meiko, whatever’s going on with you two, fix it. It’s distracting everyone else.”
“We’re fine,” Wen-Bo said quickly, his voice cracking slightly. He coughed, trying to cover it up, but the damage was done. The coach raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.
Tian, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch. “We’re fine,” he echoed, his tone steady. “Let’s focus on the game.”
Wen-Bo hated how calm Tian was, how composed he always seemed. It wasn’t fair. How was he supposed to deal with all these… feelings when Tian was so unbothered?
Except Tian wasn’t unbothered. Wen-Bo could see it in the way his hands lingered on his keyboard after every game, in the way his gaze sometimes softened when Wen-Bo wasn’t looking. It was subtle, but it was there.
And Wen-Bo couldn’t ignore it. No matter how hard he tried.
Late one night, long after scrims had ended, Wen-Bo found himself standing outside Tian’s room, his hand hovering over the door. He’d been pacing the hallway for the better part of an hour, trying to talk himself out of this, but his feet kept bringing him back.
Finally, he knocked.
The door opened a moment later, and Tian stood there, his expression half-curious, half-tired. “Wen-Bo?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Wen-Bo blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His face turned red as soon as he said it, but he didn’t back down. “It’s driving me crazy.”
Tian blinked, his surprise quickly giving way to something warmer. He didn’t say anything, just stepped aside, letting Wen-Bo in.
It wasn’t a rejection. And for the first time in weeks, Wen-Bo felt like he could breathe.
The room was dim in the following nights, illuminated only by the faint glow of Tian’s computer monitor in the corner. Wen-Bo stood frozen near the edge of the bed, his chest tight and his breath uneven as Tian moved closer, his hands warm and steady as they rested on Wen-Bo’s hips.
“You don’t have to do this,” Wen-Bo muttered, his voice shaky. The words felt hollow even as they left his lips, his body betraying him as he stayed rooted to the spot, trembling under Tian’s gaze.
“I know,” Tian said softly, his voice calm and reassuring. “But I want to. Only if you want it too.”
Wen-Bo’s jaw tightened, the war inside him raging louder than ever. He’d done this before—plenty of times, in fact—but it had never felt like this. It had never felt so… deliberate. So personal. There had always been a detachment, a distance he clung to like a lifeline, letting himself go through the motions while keeping his walls firmly intact.
But now, as Tian dropped to his knees in front of him, his hands still warm and grounding against Wen-Bo’s thighs, those walls felt paper-thin.
“Tian,” Wen-Bo said, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his heart pounding so loudly he thought it might burst. “I don’t know if I can—”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Tian interrupted gently, his gaze steady as he looked up at Wen-Bo, his glasses slightly crooked on his nose. “Just… let me take care of you.”
And fuck, the way Tian looked at him—soft, patient, like he wasn’t expecting anything but still wanted to give everything—made Wen-Bo’s chest ache. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, and gave the smallest nod he could manage.
That was all Tian needed.
His hands slid up Wen-Bo’s thighs, deliberate and slow, as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the waistband of Wen-Bo’s sweats. Wen-Bo’s breath hitched, his body tensing as Tian tugged the fabric down, leaving him exposed and trembling. His mind screamed at him to stop this, to turn and run, but his body wouldn’t move. His body didn’t *want* to move.
Tian pressed a soft kiss to the sensitive skin just above Wen-Bo’s length, his breath warm and teasing. Wen-Bo’s hands twitched at his sides, his chest heaving as he struggled to stay grounded. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking.
Tian didn’t respond—not with words, at least. Instead, he leaned forward, his lips parting as he took Wen-Bo into his mouth with a slow, deliberate motion that made Wen-Bo’s knees nearly buckle. His head tipped back, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as his hand flew to Tian’s shoulder, gripping tightly for support.
It was different. So fucking different.
The girls before—Wen-Bo hadn’t wanted them, not really. It had always been about performance, about doing what was expected, about pretending he felt something when he didn’t. But this? This was raw, unfiltered, and it felt like Tian could see every part of him—the fear, the shame, the want—and didn’t turn away.
Tian moved with practiced ease, his tongue flicking against the sensitive underside of Wen-Bo’s length as he took him deeper, his hands steadying Wen-Bo’s trembling legs. Wen-Bo’s breath came in short, uneven bursts, his chest heaving as his free hand tangled in Tian’s hair, his fingers tightening reflexively.
“Fuck, Tian,” he groaned, his voice low and strained. “I—this—” He cut himself off with a sharp gasp, his hips jerking forward involuntarily as Tian hollowed his cheeks, taking him even deeper.
Tian glanced up, his eyes dark and unwavering behind his fogged-up glasses, and that look alone was enough to send Wen-Bo spiraling. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t *do* anything except feel. The warmth of Tian’s mouth, the pressure, the way he moved like he knew exactly what Wen-Bo needed—it was overwhelming in a way that made Wen-Bo’s head spin.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Wen-Bo muttered, his grip tightening in Tian’s hair as his body betrayed him completely. His legs trembled, his hips moving on their own as Tian let out a low hum, the vibration sending a shiver down Wen-Bo’s spine.
It was too much. Too good. Too intimate.
“Tian,” Wen-Bo gasped, his voice desperate as he tugged lightly at Tian’s hair, trying to pull him back. “I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck—”
But Tian didn’t stop. If anything, he leaned in closer, his movements deliberate and unrelenting as he pushed Wen-Bo further and further toward the edge. And when Wen-Bo finally shattered, his body tensing as a strangled moan escaped his lips, Tian didn’t pull away. He stayed with him, grounding him, steadying him as Wen-Bo’s world tilted on its axis.
When it was over, Wen-Bo collapsed onto the bed, his chest heaving and his mind a jumbled mess of sensations and emotions. Tian stood slowly, his lips swollen, his glasses slightly askew, and fuck—he looked so good it made Wen-Bo’s stomach twist.
“You okay?” Tian asked softly, his voice steady but laced with something softer, something vulnerable.
Wen-Bo couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do anything except nod, his throat tight and his hands trembling as he stared up at Tian, his mind screaming at him to figure out what the hell just happened.
Because for all the pleasure, for all the raw intimacy, one thought burned brighter than the rest:
This wasn’t just physical.
It was Tian. It had always been Tian. And that scared the hell out of him.