The locker room was almost deserted now. Only the slow, irregular drip of a faulty faucet broke the silence, echoing off the tiled walls like a tired metronome. Wei moved to the very corner bench—the one tucked farthest from the door, half-concealed behind the final row of dented metal lockers. He lowered himself onto the wood with deliberate care, as though even sitting demanded more strength than he had left. A long, quiet exhale slipped from him, heavy with exhaustion.
Jian lingered just inside the entrance, half-hidden behind the open doorframe. His pulse hammered in his ears, loud enough to drown out the dripping water. He pressed his back against the cool metal, fingers curling into fists at his sides.
He didn't know what he was doing here.
He should leave. Turn around. Pretend none of this had happened.
But he couldn't.
Not after yesterday—after he'd caught the flash of fresh bruises when Wei's sleeve rode up during PE.
Not after last night, when memory after memory had crashed through him: every careless shove in the hallway he'd laughed off, every time he'd looked away while others circled like wolves, every muttered comment he'd let slide because it was easier.
Not after the sick realization that he had been blind—willingly, comfortably blind—for far too long.
Wei reached into his pocket and pulled out the small paper bag from the stationery shop. He unfolded it with careful fingers, setting the bandage and ointment on the bench beside him. His movements were slow, practiced, almost mechanical. He rolled up his sleeve just enough to expose the raw scrape along his forearm—red, angry, freshly cleaned but still weeping slightly.
Jian's throat tightened. He wanted to step forward. To speak. To ask.
But the words stayed locked behind his teeth.
He stayed hidden, watching in silence, the weight of his own guilt pressing harder with every drip from the faucet.
Not after realizing he had been blind for too long.
Wei rolled up his right sleeve with slow, careful movements. Jian's breath caught in his throat—sharp, sudden, painful.
A dark bruise bloomed across Wei's wrist. Purple-black at the center, fading to sickly yellow at the edges. Swollen. Ugly. Cruel. Not fresh, not from today or yesterday, but old enough to tell its own quiet story of repeated hurt.
Wei's left fingers hovered above it, then brushed the skin so lightly it should have been nothing. Yet even that gentle touch made his breath hitch—a small, involuntary sound that echoed louder than the dripping faucet.
Jian took one step forward before he could stop himself. The sole of his shoe scraped faintly against the tile.
He had seen cuts before. Bruises on arms and knuckles after rough games. Scrapes from falls. Injuries everyone wore like badges or laughed off in the locker room.
But never like this.
Never one hidden beneath long sleeves and lowered eyes. Never one someone carried so silently, so completely alone, as though the pain belonged only to them and no one else had the right to notice.
Wei didn't look up. He simply stared at the mark for a long moment, expression blank, almost detached. Then he reached for the ointment, unscrewing the cap with trembling fingers.
Jian's chest ached. Guilt and something fiercer twisted together until he couldn't tell them apart.
He wanted to speak. To ask how long this had been happening. Who had done it. Why no one had stopped it.
Why he hadn't stopped it.
But the words stayed locked behind his teeth. He stayed in the shadows of the lockers, watching Wei smooth the cream over the bruise with the same careful patience he used for everything else.
Wei exhaled once—soft, tired—then began wrapping the fresh bandage around his wrist, layer by careful layer, sealing the evidence away again.
Jian remained frozen. The drip of the faucet counted the seconds he failed to move.
Wei unscrewed the small tube of ointment with careful fingers. He tilted his wrist, trying to angle it just enough to reach the dark bruise that marred the skin. A soft hiss escaped him—the barest sound of pain—and he quickly switched to his left hand.
Even then it was clumsy. Slow. Awkward. His fingers trembled as he dabbed the cream, forced to brace them against the fabric of his pants to steady the shake.
He reached for the bandage next. Looped it once around his wrist. The roll slipped from his grasp, unraveling slightly. He tried again. The strip caught, twisted, refused to lie flat. On the third attempt the entire roll slipped free and fell to the tiled floor with a quiet thud.
Wei froze.
He lowered his head, shoulders curving inward. No flash of anger. No burst of frustration. Just a deep, bone-settled weariness—the kind that lived in memories no one else could touch, in places long since worn smooth by repetition.
Jian didn't remember deciding to move. One moment he was still hidden behind the lockers; the next his feet carried him forward across the cold floor. The soft scrape of his shoes finally reached Wei's ears when he was only steps away.
Wei's shoulders stiffened, a small, instinctive flinch. He didn't look up. Didn't speak. He simply sat there, head bowed, the fallen bandage lying between them like an accusation no one had voiced.
Jian lowered himself onto the bench beside him—slow, quiet, careful not to startle. The wood creaked faintly under his weight. The dripping faucet counted the seconds between them.
Wei's breath hitched once, barely audible. Still he didn't lift his eyes. The silence stretched, heavy with everything neither of them had said yet.
Jian's hands rested on his knees, fingers curling tight. He wanted to reach out. To pick up the bandage. To help.
But for now he only sat there—close enough that their shoulders almost touched—waiting for whatever came next.
The bench dipped slightly under Jian's weight.
Wei's eyes flicked upward, startled. For a heartbeat he stared at Jian like a shadow had suddenly taken solid form—quiet disbelief widening his pupils, uncertain fear tightening the corners of his mouth, and beneath it all a soft, trembling question he didn't dare voice.
Jian didn't allow himself a second to second-guess. He bent, fingers closing around the fallen bandage roll. Then, gently—careful not to startle—he slid his other hand beneath Wei's injured wrist, cradling it with the lightest possible touch.
"Don't move," he said—not harsh, not cold, just steady, like an anchor dropped into still water.
Wei froze. His lashes trembled, dark against suddenly pale skin. His breath caught and held, shallow, as though even breathing might shatter the moment.
Jian began wrapping the bandage. Slow. Methodical. Each loop deliberate, each pass smoothing the fabric flat against the swollen bruise. His fingertips brushed skin that felt impossibly fragile—too warm, too real, alive in a way that made Jian's own pulse stutter. The faint tremor in Wei's arm traveled through Jian's hand, small and constant, like something long-held finally allowed to surface.
Wei didn't pull away. Didn't speak. He simply watched Jian's hands move, eyes fixed on the careful rhythm, on the way Jian's brow furrowed in quiet concentration. The locker room's dripping faucet marked time between them—slow, steady, unhurried.
When the last edge was tucked and smoothed, Jian let his palm linger a second longer than necessary, thumb resting lightly over the bandage's seam. He felt the faint throb of Wei's pulse beneath the wrap. Quick. Alive.
Only then did he lift his gaze.
Wei's eyes met his—wide, searching, unguarded for the first time Jian could remember. No words passed. None were needed yet.
Jian simply stayed there, hand still cradling Wei's wrist, letting the silence hold everything they hadn't said.
The silence between them thickened, then softened—like breath held too long finally released. Wei watched Jian with wide, uncertain eyes, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. He looked as though he couldn't comprehend the gentleness, as though he kept waiting for the moment it would turn sharp or cruel. It never did.
Jian finished the final knot. He pulled it snug—not too tight, not too loose—just enough to cradle the bruise without pressing pain deeper. Carefully, he lowered Wei's wrist back to rest on the bench. The touch lingered a second longer than necessary, then withdrew.
A beat passed. Then another.
Jian's voice came out quieter than he intended, almost rough with something unspoken.
"…Use the ointment twice today. And don't carry heavy things."
Wei blinked slowly. His lips parted—not to answer, but because the simple instruction landed somewhere raw and unguarded inside him. No one had ever told him to take care of himself like that. Not like they meant it.
Before the moment could stretch any further, Jian stood. Abrupt. Sudden. He turned on his heel and walked out—steps quick, almost fleeing, as though if he stayed one second longer he might say something irreversible or do something he couldn't take back.
The locker room door clicked shut behind him.
Wei remained seated, alone again with the drip of the faucet and the faint scent of ointment. He lifted his hand, stared at the neatly wrapped bandage. The knot was perfect—small, secure, deliberate. No one had ever tied one for him before.
He brushed his fingertips over it, light as a question.
"…Why?"
The whisper drifted into the empty room, soft and unanswered. He kept his gaze on the bandage, thumb tracing the edge again and again, as though the answer might rise from the cotton if he waited long enough.
Outside, Jian leaned against the corridor wall, heart still racing, wondering the same thing.